


Mirrormere

by Lasgalendil



Category: Faerie Folklore, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF Nori, BFFs, Big Brother Fíli, Break Up, Drunk Dwarves, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwori - Freeform, Gigolas - Freeform, Have your ship have all the ships, Humor? Horror? I have no idea, I can't help myself, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Kíli Is a Little Shit, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Mother Hen Dori, Protective Dwalin, Selkies, Sexting, Sindarin, Still can't write erotica, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out on the beach to clear his head, post-break up Gimli inadvertently stumbles across an ancient—and rather amorous—creature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notanightlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Nothing Doth Fade (But Suffers a Sea-Change)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220221) by [notanightlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/pseuds/notanightlight). 



Break ups were hard enough without nosy cousins in the mix. It was bad enough having to crash at Fí and Kí’s place like a fucking kid, but not having any of his stuff, having to bum clothes, pipeweed, rides to work…it was the little shit like wearing his cousin’s pants or puffing his cousin’s pipe that drove him crazy.

And the worst part—the very wort part—was that asshole Ári Aíns’son kept drunk texting him.

_miss u_

Then maybe next time don’t fuck your ex, Gimli glowered sourly out at the Mirrormere bay. He’d come here to clear his head (escape his cousin’s awkward conversations and insistence on setting him up with a Mjølnr profile) but even the sight of the waves and starlight couldn’t clear his sour mood. He really ought to delete the texts, block his calls—but part of him (a whole fucking lot of him) still loved the son of bitch. He’d made the Mahal-damned beads, for Durin’s sake!

 _we should talk_  
_come over_

…followed by a rather inviting photograph of Ári and his naked arse in their—his now, _his_ —bed.

He’d been wrong. The worst part—the very worst part—was that so much of him was ready to forget, forgive, and go straight back and fuck him. Ári was a built Blacklock, strong shoulders, sculpted arse, arms like Mahal’s himself, skin like obsidian. The damned beautiful fuck could have any Dwarf he wanted, and he’d chosen Gimli, a down-on-his luck Longbeard with no money to his name. He would never—could never—do better than that cocksucking cheat. “You deserve better, Gimmers,” Fí had told him flatly. “You deserve better.”

…but he didn’t, not really. And he’d never get anything better, either.

_i’m waiting_

Durin’s saggy left testicle! Ripped chest and lean hips, one hand caressing his cock.

…heart leaping in his chest, he was half-way through typing his reply before rational thought caught up with him.

“Mahal damnit!” Gimli swore and tossed the phone far from him. It felt good to fling that unfaithful bastard far away, but the not-so-distant splash was far from satisfactory. But then, to his utter surprise, the phone came sailing back to land with a plop! in the shell-strewn sand before his feet.

For several seconds, Gimli only stared at it, that final image of his ex now crusted with coarse sand. What. The Actual. Fuck.

“Fuck you and your fucking—fuck!” he threw the phone with vehemence into the rushing surf. Let the water carry the damn thing away. Wash away the memories. He was done, alright? Done. Mahal only knows he’d probably die single and alone anyways but at least he’d keep his pride.

Gimli grunted at the waves, a curse, perhaps farewell, then turned, resolved to move on with his life, pathetic as it was.

…Something hard, wet, and suspiciously shaped like that Mahal-damned phone slapped him straight in the back of his head.

“FUCK!” he roared, and whipped it right back into the waves.

Too angry, too tearful to question how in Mahal’s name how or why, but that fucking phone lapped gently ashore right at his feet. “MAHAL-DAMNIT!”

Five more times he threw it, cursing and crying and pleading and praying. And five more times the damned thing came impossibly, inexplicably back to him.

A dream? Sign from Mahal? Going fucking insane from lack of sleep and crying his eyes dry every night in bed alone? He didn’t know. But he was worn. Exhausted. Weary as no Dwarf should be. He sighed. Knelt. Pocketed the damn thing with indifference. He’d come here to Mirrormere for what—answers? Peace? Did he even really know?

They said it was where Durin found his crown, first became King. But that was a long fucking time ago, and the Dwarves hadn’t had a damned King in generations. They said it didn’t reflect anything but starlight, but sometimes—at the right time, for the right person—the eddying waters would show you what you wanted most.

Answers? Peace? Love? Well, he’d found neither. 

Fuck the waves. Fuck the starlight. Fuck this phone and fuck my life, he thought, and turned his back to the ocean once more. Began the long trek home.

“Daro! Daro! I— _wait!”_

And suddenly on the empty beach there was a man.

…No, Gimli thought, blinking through his tears. Not a Man. Whatever—whoever—this was, it wasn’t a Man. Not in the slightest. Naked. Bare. Skin as white as moonlight, iridescent as the inside of a shell. And his hair—his hair!—flowing like the living spray of starlit waves. “You—you don’t want me?” It—he—asked.

“I—er,” Gimli grunted eloquently.

“You called me.” The creature explained.

[You know what it is. You know the name.]  
[But you can’t say it.]  
[It’s impossible. They don't exist.]

And Gimli looked down at the salty, sand-spotted phone in his palm, half-expecting there to be a missed call. “You threw it in,” the stranger insisted. “Seven times. Seven times _exactly_. You summoned me.”

“Sorry—excuse me—but wha—who exactly, are you?”

“Seven times,” he said again, counting on those long, slender fingers. “That’s how it’s done, yes? So here I am! I am yours!” Bloody breakup. Playing with his mind more than he thought. “Who are you?” the naked stranger prattled on. “Well, I know you you are—you are mine, I am yours—I have seen you, watched you, followed you—“

[…well. Wasn’t that terrifying.]

“So I know. But I don’t know really who—your—name? Yes. Name. That’s it! I have called you many things, of course, melon, gwador, mathron, mathader, hervenn, meleth, melethron—but those aren’t your names. Name. Whichever,” he laughed. “I don’t know. But I am here now! I am yours! And now I will know!”

Gimli’s exhausted mind couldn’t keep up. And his eyes just couldn’t stop fucking staring long enough to form coherent thought. “Um, sorry,” he mumbled. “Who are you?”

“I’m yours! Of course you can’t call me that—unless you want to—do you want to? I don’t mind. You may call me yours. But I suppose you could also call me Legolas. That is my name. Well, one of them. I’m also Laegolas, go-Thranduil, Thranduilion, Halloth, we have many of them. But I am called—well, it’s what I call myself? I suppose. Yes. I suppose then it is my name. Or one of them. But you may call me that, or anything else, really,” he rushed in one long breath. “I am yours!”

“Losing my bloody mind,” Gimli sat in the sand. “Losing my Mahal-damned mind.”

“I—you seem, I don’t know—sad?” the thing—it—he—plopped abruptly in the sand beside him, sprawled naked and gorgeous. “Why are you so sad? I thought—I supposed, I suppose—that I would cheer you up? But you still seem sad to me. I could cheer you up! Look! I can sing. Or dance. Or both. I can kiss you, if you like. Or other things! Oh—oh! could we do other things?” Those luminescent eyes lit up even more as he laughed. “I have never done the other things. Not before. Not yet. Not with anyone—could I do them with you? Now? I am rather curious. I should think I would like to. I don’t mind. Whatever you want. We can try them!”

“Um, sorry. Are you high? Drunk? Lost?”

“Lost? No. No I am not lost. I have come to shore is all—to find you!” he rolled to his stomach, kicking white feet in the moonlight, bare arse peeking through the curtains of his hair. “And now here you are! What fun we shall have!”

He stared.

The creature—the _selkie_ —smiled beautifully back. “You are mine now,” he sang, crawling forward on his belly to nuzzle against his leg, kissing bare, hairy skin. “I am yours!”

And it was at this point Gimli decided that he was dreaming. If his unconscious mind had decided the best—perhaps only—way to get over Ári was to screw a gorgeous mythological creature on the beach who’d popped out of the waves begging to be fucked by him shortly after receiving his ex’s sexts, so be it.

…Mahal knows he’d seen stranger porn as a young Dwarrow in Ered Luin.

“I, um, for the love of Mahal…” he said thickly, face flushing. “I suppose we could do the ‘other things’, if you want to.”

And that expression of happy, child-like playfulness turned to lust so fast it made his heart stop. “Mine,” the selkie purred, slinking up to claim his lips. “Mine. You are my Dwarf now. Mine forever.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin courtesy of RealElvish dot net and Elfdict dot net. Original constructions/reconstructions marked with *.
> 
> melon (n): friend
> 
> gwador (n): " sworn brother", used for non-blood relatives
> 
> *mathron (n): matha-(v., stem) "to comb" + -ron(suff., masculine)= "[male who] combs"
> 
> *mathader (n): matha-(v., stem) "to comb" + daer >dêr (Silvanized Sindarin dialectal changes) >der (contraction mutation of much-used word or phrase) "bride-groom"= "[male] comb-mate"
> 
> hervenn (n): husband
> 
> meleth (n): love
> 
> melethron (n): meleth+ron(suff., masculine) "[male] lover"
> 
> Laegolas (name): Original Sindarin form of Silvanized Sindarin "Legolas", likely a chosen-name or mother-name
> 
> go-Thranduil (name): Silvan dialect "Son of/begetted of Thranduil", likely a father-name and/or title
> 
> Thranduilion (name): Pure Sindarin dialect "Thranduil's Son", likely a father-name and/or title
> 
> Halloth (name): Silvan dialect "Hiding Flower", likely a milk-name given during pregnancy or shortly after birth


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Erebor, Gimli's convinced himself it was all a dream...but the day might hold some surprises of its own.

Gimli Glóin’sson woke up in his bed (well, couch), having undoubtably had the best sex dreams of his entire life.

…granted, they were—in a word— _odd_. Not in a kinky BDSM sort of way, more in the your partner sucks you off then proceeds to catch eat a raw, wriggling fish in front of you with the same soft mouth that had been around your cock only moments before way. Only now it was full of teeth and blood, and his breath smelt and tasted like fish but Mahal-damnit, you kept kissing him anyways, because he was so fucking gorgeous even when shredding living flesh sort of odd sex dreams.

It was, he was sure, due to his sudden and rather forced celibacy. After Ári’s betrayal just days ago he hadn’t had the energy or will to even think about jacking off. The ache had just been too raw. But now—? Well, now he was acutely aware of just how much he missed it.

[Sex, that is.]  
[That rat bastard Ári Aíns’son could go die in a hole, for all he cared.]

From the ruckus outside his impromptu bedroom in Fí and Kí’s game room he knew his cousins were up and about, getting ready for work, and he’d have to go out and face them…and the inevitable discussion about getting his stuff back and don’t you dare even think about going back to that piece of trash and have you thought about where you’re going to live and what in Mahal’s name happened to your phone. But for now, for just a few precious seconds longer, he wanted to drift off and remember whatever weirdness his brain had made up overnight—a selkie? Swift, sleek, sex-starved and trippingly anxious and eager to fuck _him_ —him, of all Dwarves!

…he supposed after being unceremoniously tossed aside from the most serious relationship of his life, his subconscious knew he needed the ego boost.

So Legolas. At least he thought that’s what the creature (did it matter? The damned beautiful boy didn’t fucking exist) called itself. And despite the recent break-up and all the heartache inherent in growing up a Longbeard he didn’t think he’d ever been sadder than waking up on the shores of the Mirrormere early in the morning before the sun had even risen to find himself alone, and realize that the best fuck(s) in his life had just been a dream.

[Also, how the hell much had he been drinking? Falling asleep on the shore, weird and alarmingly vivid sex dreams…it was like being a Mahal-damned 30 year-old all over again.]

He closed his eyes with a sigh, tried to picture the exact shade of Legolas’ hair, skin, the wicked flush that crept over the selkie’s cheeks and chest with every kiss and every stroke…the exact feel of that strange yet-oh-so-soft beardless mouth moving rhythmically against him—

“Oy!” That bugger Kí hammered against the door. “You’d better be awake, clothed, and alone in there!”

“Mahal damnit, you hairless Hobbit!” Gimli shouted back. “I’m up!”

The door swung slowly open, Kí grinning like an idiot as he waltzed in. “So—?”

“So what?”

“So Fí says he caught you stumbling in at like, four this morning and you could barely bloody walk. Soooo?”

“So what?”

“So EVERYTHING!” his idiot cousin threw up his hands. “So sex? Yes? How was it? With who? Are you seeing him again—you didn’t throw in the towel and hook up with a girl, did you? Because ‘my bi-curious cousin Gimli’ doesn’t sound nearly as cool as ‘my gay cousin Gimli—‘“

“Shut up, you.” Fí growled. “Let the poor Dwarf have some peace, will you?” Then he smiled and dropped the big-brother act he’d been forced into the moment Uncle Frerin had met his untimely end. “But yes. How was it? No need to say anything—the bloody grin on your face is answer enough. I’m just glad that Mjølnr profile I set up for you worked out so well. I told you you needed to find someone. A little casual rebound did you good.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it again—leaving the Firebeard in him furious. But what could he say? 'Thanks for the congratulations, boys, but I accidentally fell asleep on the beach and had the best wet dreams of my life?' 

“Er…”

Fí’s blonde mustaches stretched in a maddeningly smug grin. “That good, huh? Well I’ve got some other good news for you, too: apparently Nori and Dwalin got all your stuff back, and Kí and I have decided you’re staying here—no point in arguing, that’s final—until you get back on your feet.”

Gimli gaped. “How the bloody fuck—“

“My guess is blackmail and/or sheer brute force, plus some B&E, to be honest,” Fí shrugged. “Ever since the whole noodle incident I’ve learned not to question these things.”

“But where?”

“Storage locker. Nori and Ori’ll be by later with the keys. And Ki’s taking the day off work to drive you over and get what you need.”

“Why Kí?”

“Because, my dear idiot, I don’t miss work for anything short of an actual emergency and no one cares if Kí does since he’s either late or not there half the time anyways.” That brat Kí didn’t even have the decency to defend himself, just shrugged oh-so-helplessly and batted his best puppy eyes.

“I love you. _Both_ of you,” Gimli finally choked in gratitude. “But if you ever tell anyone I said that out loud I’ll bloody shave your beards while you sleep.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori puts his less-than-legal skills to good use.

Sometime later they were in the car. He didn’t really pay attention, mind kept drifting in and out of conversation and Kí’s impromptu karaoke. Just a week ago even he had everything all planned out, spent months saving up, weeks in the forge making the perfect beads…and now? Now he was crammed in the back of a second-hand station wagon Nori’d won in a poker game against Nasty Bill from Ferny’s Refurbishing.

[To make matters worse, there was at least a 100% chance the git had cheated, too.]  
[But that was Nori for you—any sight of profit and all morality went out the Mahal-damned window.]

…crammed in the back of Nori’s station wagon and day-dreaming about a certain _selkie_ , that is. He only came to when Dwalin’s large hand clapped him on the back with far more force than necessary, accompanied by raucous laughter.

“And he won’t even tell us who!” Kí chimed.

“It weren’t that lyin’ bugger, were it?” Nori asked.

“No,” Gimli assured them, flushing. Not a week ago he’d planned to marry—and now none of his closest friends would dare to say his (ex) lover’s name. “No it wasn’t—him.”

“Never liked ‘im, anyways.” Nori said toothily into the rearview mirror. “Nope. I told’s you, I did—‘E’s a Blacklock. Nothin’ but trouble from the start.”

“ _I_ did,” Ori sighed.

“Hush, you.” Dwalin grunted, eliciting a shy smile from the youngest brother Ri. It was an odd sight, the two of them, all his life Dwalin had been the Mahal-may-care cousin, and now watching him melt (er, at least be somewhat civilized?) was a strange experience.

“Oy!” Nori shouted from the driver’s seat. “None o’ that! Dori’d have a fit if he saw you two love birds a-flirtin’.”

“What Dori doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Ori objected.

“Fuck Dori.” Dwalin grumped. The two families had known each other for years, and Ori was far past the age of it being unseemly, but Dori fussed over him constantly like a Dwarrodam the first time she caught her 20 year-old daughter sneaking out.

“All I’s sayin’ is—best keep it in the clan,” Nori continued. “An’ you—you got Firebeards _and_ Longbeards to chose from! Ain’t no need to go lookin’ elsewhere. ’S trouble. All I’s sayin’.”

…and coming from Nori the notorious jewel thief, swindler, and all around vagabonding vagrant low-life, that was saying something.

“Don’t listen to him, lad,” Dwalin chuckled. “He’s still upset about that Stiffbeard—what was her name again?”

“Amira,” Ori piped in. “Only it was her brother and father who—“

  
And so Ori and Dwalin launched into the story they’d all heard a hundred times over, Nori escaping that house in Harad by rappelling down the wall with the poor girl’s bedsheets, Kí adding his usual colorful commentary while Nori seethed silently all the way to his new storage unit. Gimli knew what they were doing, distracting him from Ári, and as tired and humorless as he felt at the moment he was deeply grateful. They were a strange sight, the thief, his perpetually kid brother, the adorably irresponsible cousin, and the grizzled veteran, but Mahal-damnit they were _his_ strange bunch, and he wouldn’t trade them for all the gold in Erebor.

They managed to fix his mattress on top of the car with duct tape (or “Dwarvish engineering”, as Dwalin called it), and he fished the rest of the necessaries out bit by bit. Laptop. Charger. Boxes and boxes of unfolded clothes. His small forge, tools, and several heavy cases of raw materials. Still couldn’t find his bloody ax, though, the great-ax Adad’s Adad had carried at Azanulbizar. He rummaged through hastily stacked cardboard boxes and no small share of stretched out garbage bags, only to stop aghast.

“What in the name of Durin’s sagging left—“

“Don’t let Dori hear you,” Dwalin grunted.

“The fuck is this?” Gimli gaped.

“Well, that there’s what we types in the business like t’ call a wee bit o’ revenge,” Nori winked. “Nothin’ illegal, mind.”

…revenge was an understatement. The box was overflowing with what Gimli now suspected was all the toilet paper, underwear, shoelaces, condoms, and lightbulbs Ári’s apartment had held. And suddenly he was on his arse in a tight, unairconditioned storage unit surrounded by memories of the life he’d once hoped to lead, laughing until he cried.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a hectic, friend-filled day, Gimli goes back to the Mirrormere just wanting to be alone...or not.

As far as shitty days and shitty break-ups went, it had actually been a pretty decent. He’d gotten his stuff back. Found a place to stay. Felt better about himself, about his future. And yet—and yet. Despite all his friends’ encouragement and jovial presence (and perhaps partially because of it), he was still worn. Exhausted. Needed to get away. Needed to be alone.

Gimli couldn’t say why exactly he chose to walk back to Mirrormere so late at night. Maybe it was the chance for some solitude, to be able to cry without running the shower or some other trick his cousins were far too polite to pretend to not see through. Maybe it was because the fresh air could clear his head. Maybe because after all those years in downtown Dale with Ári the sea view, darkened skies, and stars were a welcome change.

…And maybe, just maybe, a deep down part of him wondered, could it have really been—well, _real?_

Stupid, really. What sort of shitty dwarrowkid nonsense was this, anyways? Sneaking out in the middle of the night in the hopes of meeting your Mahal-damned imaginary friend?

But real or not the selkie meant something to him. Nori might’ve made Ári’s life a living hell, and terse Dwalin, Kí and even soft-spoken Ori had tried to cheer him up all day, but none of them had given him what he really needed at that moment—to feel worthwhile, wanted, loved.

…oh, and a Mahal-damned good fuck, too. Best fuck of his life. He’d had to teach Legolas how, but then he’d gone down and stayed there, sucking and licking, licking and sucking long after Gimli had come twice and his pleas and begging had fallen on deaf ears. He’d had to pry the selkie off, nearly fight him just to free his cock, just to fucking breathe. But he’d only been attacked anew, licked and nipped and kissed, that long, lithe body writhing against him, strangling as a snake. Fucking, frotting, fellating, it made no difference. The selkie had been as inescapable as he was insatiable. “Mine,” he’d repeated over and over. “You’re mine. Mine forever.”

He didn’t really know why he was here. Nostalgia, perhaps. Hopeless romanticism. Some fucking inexplicably stupid (and erotic) desire to see Legolas again.

He tried to retrace his exact steps, but the beach was awash with waves and weeds and small tide pools glimmering in the moonlight. It all looked alike to him. So instead he wandered, wandered aimlessly, slowly walking the shore, hands in his pockets, whistling some song. Didn’t really know it, not Dwarvish, that was certain, felt like something that had come to him in a dream—

Lost track of time. Didn’t know how long he had walked, or how long they’d been following him, but he became acutely aware of two seals bobbing off shore, barking. One was tawny, rust-colored and speckled and one was—oh! the other was white and gold, the sheen of moonlight against his—its—pelt shining in the dark like mother-of-pearl and freshly fallen snow. It was the exact, beautiful shade of Legolas’ skin, and the sight took his breath away.

He isn’t real, Gimli told himself. He can’t be.

  1. Selkies don’t exist.
  2. If they did it was a long fucking time ago and
  3.  Oh, Mahal, if they did that meant he’d just had actual (and unprotected) sex on the beach with a complete and utter stranger (he was no innocent, but the idea of sex that casual still made him feel more than a bit squeamish) and
  4. they might’ve—by some ridiculous, binding laws of folklore—gotten married?



But the truth was, it was a dream. Nothing more. It had to be. In what possible version of reality—

“There you are!” and that impossibly gorgeous idiot launched himself across the sand in an iridescent blur, pounced on him and sent them both sprawling breathlessly across the shell-strewn shore.

“They said you wouldn’t come back—you’d forgotten me—you didn’t, did you? Oh—oh! You didn’t you didn’t! I missed you I missed you oh I missed you so much—“ Legolas rubbed his face back and forth against his beard, capering like an energetic puppy, laughing and quivering from head to toe. “You’re here now you’re here now oh what fun we shall have!”

What. His brain asked. The Fuck. What. The Actual. Fuck.

[…Yes, please?]

Legolas kissed him, nuzzled him, brushed those warm lips against every inch of bare skin he could find, slender fingers tearing impatiently at clothing. “Tauriel is here she doesn’t approve but I told her I told her that you are a good Dwarf a kind Dwarf you are my Dwarf you are my Dwarf forever that you wouldn’t hurt me you would never steal my skin and take it away I am yours I am yours I am yours now, yours forever—“

“I er, um,” Gimli began, extracting himself slowly from that intoxicating mess of lithe limbs and hair. “I—who is Tauriel?”

“My friend,” the selkie said.

“And where is she?”

“Out in the waves, watching.”

Gimli looked at the water, pointedly. His half-drunk, lust-filled brain and erection were quite happy to accept Legolas existed…just not as a selkie. Surely not. “Your, um, your friend is a seal?”

Legolas stared. Then—he snorted, rolled around on the sand barking, barking with laughter, clutching his stomach, kicking those long, lean legs, giggling and crying and bleating. When he finally sat up he was still helpless with mirth, wiping tears from those fathomless eyes with his palms, shoulders shaking. “Oh, oh my Gimli! You—you are not a very _smart_ Dwarf, are you?”

He had absolutely nothing to say to that. Being called brainless by the daftest, most dim-witted possibly imaginary and/or mythological creature he’d ever met was a new level of insult entirely.

But Legolas was watching him from under his hair now, half-playful, half-preying, flushed and eager with laughter and want. “You’re here now you’re here now you’re here now,” he whispered, surging forward across the sand on his belly, effortless as a snake.

[Run. Said some primitive, instinctual part of his brain.]  
[Are you fucking kidding me? Another primitive part responded.]

“So, um, listen,” Gimli stammered, palms up in surrender. “We um, we didn’t really get the chance to do this thing properly—“

“Mine,” the selkie pulled outstretched fingers into his mouth, moaning, sliding the slick, firm line of his lips up and down against his flesh, licking and worrying with his long, clever tongue. “Mine.”

Gimli couldn’t breathe.

Bloody. Fucking. Mahal.

[...In a _whorehouse._ ]

But his stunned silence was invitation enough. Legolas leapt up, entwined his legs about Gimli’s waist, undulating with the roaring sea. Sank his sharp teeth into lips, ears, face, whining all the while “Let’s do the other things! Please oh please _oh please_ let’s do the other things again!”

Fuck it, the last rational thought in Gimli’s head gave in as instinct took over. Why not?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli wakes up to a not-so-unpleasant surprise...and how do you mention that your new boyfriend's a selkie in casual conversation, anyways?

Oh, shit, thought Gimli. It was happening again. He was having that weird dream again, that one with the stupid, oh-so sexy selkie. He flitted in and out of sleep, not willing to wake up, give up the sensation of that slow-moving, smooth mouth sucking up and down his cock. Some of the best orgasms of his life had come from his own imagination, so no. He shut his eyes tightly, determined he would stay asleep for now, thank you very much.

Oh, Mahal! Hands now, hands now too, pulling gently through the hair of his beard, his stomach, groin, combing, petting, raking, caressing him, stroking gently down to the base of his cock. He let himself be drawn into it, tilted hips, legs, himself up into that warm mouth as shivers erupted from his spine, skin tingling with the shards of a seven thousand mirrors, so awake—so aroused!—and yet lulled still by the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

And finally, finally after minutes, hours, days, an eternity—or was it merely seconds?— of this sweet torment he came, and a warm, silver haze of pleasure swallowed him and he could fucking fly or fall forever.

Groaning contentedly, he opened his eyes.

“The FUCK!” Gimli shouted, now wide awake.

“Well, yes. That’s what you called it,” Legolas stretched lazily above him, limber as a cat. “I had thought—you’d said—I don’t know. I thought you liked it? You said so. I am quite certain that you said so. Did you say so? But we can do something else, if you want! Anything! All of the things! I like the other things,” then the selkie nestled down in the sand next to him, wide eyes staring, mere inches from his own. “All of them.”

…It was real. He was real. The fucking selkie from his fucking weird fuck dreams was fucking _real._

[Fucking Mahal. What sort of STI’s did seals get—?]

“But, but you’re impossible—“ he managed to stammer. Great one, Gimli.

“Oh! Oh!” Legolas chortled, flushing with pleasure and shaking his long mane of hair. “I am? Am I impossible? Impossibly lovely? Am I clever? Impossibly so? Say I am!”

“I, um, both—?” Gimli tried.

Legolas let out a low, shameful sound, half moan, half sigh, and buried his beautiful face against his beard. “Mine,” Gimli heard him growl. “Mine forever.”

“I…um, (help me, Mahal!) how long have you—?” A toothy, predatory smile greeted him. The selkie licked his lips, cum and spit dribbling down his sharp chin and Gimli hastily decided for his own sanity it was just better not to know. “I—“ He really couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. And Legolas, it appeared, was more than happy to be simply stared at, basking contentedly in his gaze as if it were the sun. Had sex always been this awkward? Granted, he’d just woken up to a previously supposed mythological creature he’d been positive his post break-up brain had invented to stave off his impending loneliness and depression sucking him off on a beach...so in retrospect, the disorientation was probably normal. But he’d had plenty of one-night encounters in his life—had they always been so, so—

“Shit!” Gimli sat up suddenly. “What time is it?”

Legolas only giggled. “Dwarves are funny! There is the sun. There is a moon sometimes. There are stars always, but when the sun is here they disappear. The waves come in. The waves go out. What of them?”

He frowned the horizon. Sun wasn’t up yet, but light was breaking. Shit. Shit. Shit shit shitshitshit.

He jumped to his feet, searched the surrounding sand frantically for his scattered clothes. Found himself hopping half-way into his trousers when his mouth caught up with his panicked mind. “I, um—have to—“

WAIT.  
STOP. RUDE.

What was he, some Mahal-damned twenty-something? You did’t just excuse yourself away from the best lay in your life blabbering about how you ‘need to be somewhere.’

[Well, if it was _actually_ urgent, then yes. But you at least left a note or a number or something—you didn't just grab your clothes and run.]

He dropped his boot. “I, um, fuck. Mahal-damnit. Is there—do you—“

Legolas only sat up and studied him curiously. “…fuck.” Gimli swore, tore his wandering eyes away from the selkie’s sleek form. “Sorry. I—I have to go. Soon. Be…home. But um, did you want, need—I can, you know—you—before I go?”

“Yours,” Legolas came forward and breathed into his mouth with a kiss so exquisitely, excruciatingly gentle it was little more than a wistful sigh, then slipped into the sea without another word.

* * *

 

How the fuck far had he gone last night? It was at least a half an hour’s run back to his cousins’ small cottage, sand chafing in his shoes and groin the entire way. By the time he’d finished the distance he swore he was red and bleeding and sex with a Mahal-damned selkie or not, it just wasn’t worth it.

[Lies.]

“Mahal-damned. Sand.” Gimli cursed on the doorstep, trying to brush and shake the remnants of last night from his clothes, hair, and skin. It wouldn’t do to sneak in leaving a sand trail to his bedroom. But seconds later the door swung open of its own accord despite his attempts at secrecy.

“Beach again, huh?” Fí asked. Gimli flushed.

“I take it I wasn’t meant to see,” Fí continued casually. “I think it’s good—it’s good for you. Sex, that is. It suits you. Just—look, I know you’re not Kí, I know it’s none of my fucking business, if you pardon the pun—but be careful. If you’re doing this to be happy, or for you, then I’m 100% for it. But if you’re—I don’t know, trying to get back at that asshole—“

“What? No, Fí,” he was taken aback. “Mahal’s sake. Who do you think I am?”  
“A lonely, sixty-something with a recent Mjølnr profile who’s spent two consecutive nights sneaking in?”

And at that even Gimli had to laugh. Fí squeezed his shoulder. “Same guy?”

“Yeah. Same guy.”

“You seeing him again?”

“Mahal, I hope so.” Gimli said. “I really,really hope so.”

Fí grinned, stepping aside as Gimli hobbled up the steps. “Too early to think about moving in with him yet?”

Moving in? Oh, Mahal, could you even imagine—? “It’s…” Gimli began, then sighed. “Complicated.”

“Complicated?” Fí repeated.

“Complicated.”

“Shit, Gimmers,” Fí sucked in his breath. “He isn’t _married_ , is he?” And for the life of him, Gimli couldn't say if that secret would've been better or worse than the one he was hiding.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's back to life as usual at Sons of Durin Dwarves Crafting and Repairs Shop, until surprise arrives in a most peculiar fashion.

“The fuck are you whistling?” Uncle Thorin grunted.

“I, um—“ truth be told, he had no idea. The tune had come to him in a dream—and that meant Legolas, most likely. Damned selkie spent hours just singing and sucking him last night, and the tune was etched in his ears now. “A—song?” he said.

“Well don’t,” Thorin brooded. “It’ll distract you.”

Bloody hell. Bitter much? How’s your life, Gimli? Heard you had a break up, Gimli. After you’d made the beads and everything, Gimli. That sucks, Gimli. Have some time off, Gimli, you deserve it. Ha.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said instead. And bent back to his work, whistling to himself if only in his head. There’d been words, he was certain, but whether they were actually words in the selkie’s strange, liquid tongue or just the muffled sounds of humming around his cock he had no idea.

Now _there_ was a distraction—

“What?” He asked Fí sharply.

“Nothing,” his cousin said, completely unabashed. “It’s just—I’m glad for you. That’s all. It’s been a long time since you’ve looked like that about anyone. Especially—“ his voice strained, then stopped altogether.

“Bloody hell, Fí, I’m a grown Dwarf, not some Dwarrowling. Ári, alright? You can say his name. It won’t kill me.”

“You remember that nickname we had for him?” Kí interrupted. “You know, back when you were first dating—“

“The nick name YOU had for him, you mean,” Fí sighed. “And yes. Unfortunately, yes.”

“Ári Aíns’son the ‘Airy Anus. Man!” Kí laughed. “We were so great! Told you he was an ass.”

“I don't know if that’s purposefully homophobic or just plain stupid but Mahal, Kí, would you just shut up?” Fí sighed. “Sorry about that,” he continued apologetically. “About—him. Well, all of it, really.”

Gimli only shook his head. Determined not to cry, not to lash out. Not at them. “He’s fine. He’s—harmless. Just a stupid kid, is all.”

Fí smiled sadly, that same worn, weathered smile that had aged him since Frerin’s death. Reached out to place his hand on his shoulder—

“Mahal-damnit, Fí, you’re my cousin—you’re like a brother to me—and I appreciate all you’re doing but you lay one more supportive hand on me anywhere and I swear on Adad’s great ax I will fucking cut it off, you hear?”

“You mean the one from Azanulbizar?” Kí piped in. “Because Nori stole the shit out of that thing. Said it’d fetch a fortune.”

“Fuck!” Fí shouted, and raced out of the room already swearing into his phone, Dori on speed-dial. “No, I don’t care it he’s busy, no I don’t want to leave a Mahal-damned message _what part of fucking family emergency don’t you understand—?!”_

…And that, Gimli supposed, was that. He’d never see the damned thing—or Nori—again. And Kí’d be lucky if he wasn’t strangled in his sleep. It’d been years since he’d seen Fí so incensed.

“Don’t be mad?” Kí wheedled miserably, wringing his hands. “I just—oh, Hell, Gimmers. Everything was shit and—and you needed just one good day. Yeah? So I couldn’t tell you.”

He’s a kid he’s just a kid he’s just a Mahal-damned kid…and a good one, he finally realized. Even if he did manage to fuck it up more often than not. If Gimli wasn’t too busy being pissed off, he’d be proud. “Yeah. Fine. I—whatever.” Gimli tried to shrug it off.

“I—“

“I just really need to be alone right now.” And somehow, judging from Kí’s hurt look, that terse request had been worse than all the swearing in the world.

* * *

The mood lasted all morning, made worse by Thorin’s habitually mute moping, Kí’s plaintive glances, and Fí’s pantomimed _don’t-you-dares_. They were Longbeards all, and he a Firebeard as well, so apologies didn’t come naturally to any of them. Usually they endured the long, awkward silences until they couldn't stand it anymore, then swung right back into their usual pace without breaking stride. It was, he supposed, the only real way Dwarves said sorry.

And so it was distraction—and resolution—presented itself in a rather unexpected manner.

“Oh, ho!” Kí’s voice rang as the bells on the front door jingled. “Looks like Mr. Boggins is back again!”

“Kí, you idiot,” Fí sighed, the spell of silence broken. “It’s Baggins. Baggins, for Mahal’s sake. Poor Hobbit comes in here at least once weekly for repairs for over two years. You’d think you’d get his name right just once.”

“Baggins,” Thorin let out a long, grumpy sigh and slouched over to the counter. “What is it this time?”

“My—well, would you believe it—my washer. It broke. I swear, Thorin—I can call you Thorin? It’s just that we’ve known each other for so long now—well, as I was saying, the damnedest thing. Just the damnedest thing. One day it was working fine, and the next—poof!—can you believe it?”

Silence. Pensive, brooding silence.

“Well. Anyhoo,” the Hobbit bounced onto the balls of his hairy feet, arms swinging. “I was thinking—to myself, as one does I’m a thinker, me—that I should get it looked at. A proper look, mind you. And I thought—Thorin would know! He’s quick, always available, cut me a damned good deal on that refrigerator repair the other week, so, you know. Bet he’s handy with a washer, too!”

“Poof?” Kí wrinkled his nose. “What sort of mechanical error goes ‘poof’?”

“Poor Baggins,” Gimli shrugged, returning to the rusted lawn-mower in front of him. He was still too put off to want to join in just yet. “Damned unluckiest Hobbit I’ve ever heard of.”

“Mechanical Error? Unlucky?” Fí accidentally flung a pipe wrench from his flailing hands. “Do you two even hear yourselves right now?”

“What?” Gimli’s hackles raised, the Firebeard in him, he was sure. Hated being crossed, even by someone as kind and familiar and long-suffering as Fí.

“You absolutely blind idiots. My dear cousins, let me present to you exhibits 1 through 2941.”

“The fuck are those?” Gimli regarded the computer screen with inherent distrust. He hated paperwork. Happy to work on the forge or on general repairs when needed, but Mahal save him from anything needing a signature.

“This, my friends, is an electronic record of every Baggins transaction ever. An eternal testament. A sigh of hopeless infatuation and determination. A tragic tale of perseverance. In short, a love letter told in numbers only, if you will.”

Curious, Gimli peered at the spreadsheet. “I think he’s just unlucky,” Kí chimed. “And a bit of an idiot.”

“Nonsense, Kí. He’s spent a fortune on small repairs, always leaves reviews about promptness and professionalism on SonsofDurin’s webpage, comes in person rather than calling, and specifically requests Thorin on every job. And the one time he wasn’t here and I went instead his air conditioning wasn’t broken it’d been purposefully sabotaged.”

“So, like, _really_ unlucky then.”

“Well, fuck me,” Gimli gasped as the sudden, hilarious truth hit him.

“The Hobbit’s smitten or I’ll eat my beard,” Fí concluded.

“Oh, Mahal. Someone tell him Thorin’s a fiend and a grump and save him the trouble,” Gimli groaned, having recently gone through enough heartache of his own.

Thorin shuffled in, head bowed, beard unkempt, eyes on the floor. “Out,” he grunted. “Repairs.”

“Take your time,” Fí said smoothly. “I can handle the shop until you get back. In fact—why don’t you get some lunch while you’re out? It’s getting late. You could use it.”

Grunt. Nod. Shuffle.

“Lunch?” Baggins called brightly. “Did someone say something about lunch? Fabulous idea. Marvelous!. Absolutely fan-tas-tic. You don’t mind? I’ll buy? Least I can do. Very least I can do. Yessir.”

“The fuck does Baggins see in him, anyways?” Gimli asked as the unlikely not-quite-a-couple left the shop, the Hobbit positively beaming.

“No idea,” Fí said fondly. “Bless his brown furry feet, no idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hobbit walks into a bar...

“Plans?” Fí asked him once they’d returned home for the evening.

“Er-?” Gimli answered. Truth be told his cousin had interrupted a very, _very_ vivid daydream concerning a certain selkie and the best Mahal-damned blow job the universe had ever experienced. And—truth also be told—If he weren’t currently sharing cramped quarters with two other Dwarves who’d never let him hear the end of it he’d be engaging in a very enthusiastic wanking session right now.

[…but that would mean the break-up had never happened. And he wouldn’t’ve ever met Legolas in the first place.]  
[And thank Mahal he had, too. Ári, in addition to his myriad of other faults, had preferred Top with a near religious fervor. Gimli could barely remember the last time another man’s lips had been on him with such _enthusiasm_.]

“For this evening. As in, do you have some?”

“Um—“ he was pretty sure ‘sneak out after dark and get my brains fucked out by a selkie' was not only a socially unacceptable excuse, but also grounds for immediate institutionalization.

“If you and your boy have other plans, just say so. If not, Kí and I thought about going out for drinks. You know, to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Gimli asked, voice laden with suspicion.

“Moving in with us? Baggins’s hilarious crush? Your new-found singleness? Putting a bad relationship behind you?”

“It’s only Thor’s day,” he tried to stall.

“C’mon, Gimmers,” Kí winked from his perch not the floor, unlacing his heavy work boots. “It’s _Thor’s day_. Do we even need another reason?”

“It’s only dwarvenly.” Fí agreed without blinking. “Are you in?”

After the day he’d had? He really just wanted to run back to that beach. “Who else is coming?”

“Oh, you know. Just sent out a group text. We’ll see who shows up.”

“Aw, c’mon, Gimmers!” Kí pleaded. “ _Pleeeease_ say yes? Say you’ll come with?”

* * *

In the end it hadn’t been the enthusiastic yes his cousin wanted, more a resigned, slightly resentful (and rather Thorinesque) “fine”, but the result was the same: Gimli Glóins’son was going out drinking—on a week night!

The Green Dragon. Old favorite. Not an overt gay bar per se, but certainly open to all persuasions, Dwarrow, Hobbit, and Man alike. Much more LGBTQ etc. friendly than that stuffy old Golden Perch…and not so flamboyant as a night out at The Prancing Pony. Ah, The Pony. Too noisy for a night of friends and conversation, but good place to go when you just wanted to get hammered and a have a nice, drunken fuck…he hadn’t gone in years, and at his age the hangovers were hardly worth it.

[And besides, he had something much better waiting for him.]

Predictably, they weren’t the first to arrive. Dwalin already looked three sheets to the wind, and that was an impressive enough feat in itself. The grizzled old veteran was beside himself with laughter, and certainly exhibiting a lot more PDA than was his usual wont. Gimli nearly startled in surprise to see his hand clasping Ori’s. “LADS!” Not to mention his penchant for unnecessary force—that bear hug could crush iron.

“Just how drunk are you, Dwalin?” Fí asked, rubbing his ribs. “Because I swear to Mahal I’ve never seen you even touch Ori, let alone _hold hands_ in public.”

But Ori only smiled shyly, gripping that tattooed hand in return.

“WHY ARE YOU STILL SOBER?!!” Was the warrior’s swaying response. “A ROUND FOR THE LADS ‘ERE—MAKE THAT SEVEN!”

“Dwalin, Lulkhê, you don’t have to—“

“SEVEN ROUNDS, DAMN IT. SEVEN FUCKING ROUNDS!”

“WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!” He jumped up on the table and roared to the entire pub, exposing a good portion to the underside of his kilt. “SEVEN FUCKING ROUNDS FOR EVERYONE!”

Glasses raised. Huzzahs, hurrahs, cheers, whistling, clapping, and for a dizzying moment Hobbit, Man, and Dwarf were all one.

“There goes that downpayment,” Ori quipped once the noise had died down, more Nori than Dori with a light-hearted shrug.

“Buh-guh-wha—?” he, Fí, and Kí asked in bewildered unison.

“Notice anything?” And sure enough, there were seven beads plaited clumsily into Ori’s pudding-bowl haircut.

“What?”  
“—the fuck?”  
“When?”  
“—bloody hell!”  
“How?”  
“—the fucking fuck?”  
“I’m sorry, what—?”

“Is that turquoise?” Fí was the first to regain any semblance of composure, leaning forward to inspect the promise beads. “They’re wonderful, Ori. Suit you well.”

“And what are you getting, sirs?” A curvy Hobbit girl—Rosie?—he thought her name was, flitted over to interrupt.

[Gimli didn’t really pay much attention to waitresses.]  
[Waiters, however…]

“MARRIED!” Dwalin bellowed, red in the face. “WE’RE GETTING MARRIED, LASSIE, THAT’S WHAT!”

“Are you now, dears,” the lass didn’t miss a beat. “That’s just lovely! Some lovely tonic water for you, then, and the rest of you—?”

“BEER, WOMAN. BRING US BEER!”

“Oh, sit, you.” Ori told him. Remarkably, his—fucking Mahal! his fiancee!—sat at once. “And hush, Lulkhê. You’re being rude.”

He and Kí gaped.

“Nothing wrong with a little celebration, lads,” Rosie smiled the most dimpliest, freckliest, hobbitliest smile he’d ever seen. “Enjoy!”

“Did you know about this?” Gimli rounded on his cousins the moment she disappeared. It hurt to think they’d kept it from him, as if they didn’t trust him…and as much as he was done with Ári, having it happen so close—

“Mahal, no!” Fí laughed.

“Oh, he’s been asking for ages,” Ori blushed, fondling Dwalin’s large palm with his thumb in small circles. “Kept saying no.”

“Guess seventh time’s the charm, huh?” Kí said levelly.

“Suppose it is!" And that, Gimli supposed, was that. The Green Dragon was alive with mirth and merriment, and for Ori’s sake (and Dwalin’s, too, he supposed) he tried to put on a cheerful face as ale flowed freely and everyone in the Mahal-damned pub was happy but him. At the moment even the beach couldn’t tempt him. He just wanted to go home and fall into bed and never come out again. It—it just wasn’t fair.

…and it wasn’t fair for him to fuck up Ori’s excitement, either. Shy, odd lad deserved his moment in the spotlight. And bloody hell, he’d never heard the boy talk so much in his life. “Turquoise—see? It’s raw, too, not filigreed, from Orocarni, or so Dwalin says. And the lattice is tarnished steel—“

So Gimli sat through seven rounds and nearly an hour of Fí—and Kí—’s gentle prodding, mining Ori for every detail of the proposal while Dwalin half-nodded, half-snored in the corner.

[And only very occasionally started awake to declare toasts to LOVE, MAHAL-DAMNIT. TRUE FUCKING LOVE. and lead the entire pub in raucous versions of traditional Dwarvish ballads.]

[…All things said, Drunk!Dwalin was just normal Dwalin dialed up to 11.]

He tried to enjoy himself, he really did. Even asked Ori some ridiculous questions, nodding at his answers only half-lisetning. Forced conversation had never been his forte. Tried to focus, concentrate, but exhaustion—both physical and emotional—were taking their toll on him.

“Well, you’re not the only ones!” he heard Fí bragging when he came abruptly too.

“What?” Kí shouted, now plastered in turn. “Don’t tell me _you’ve_ just gotten engaged, too!”

“No, my dear idiot,” Fí rolled his eyes. “I meant Gimmers here—“

“ _He’s_ engaged—!?” Kí flung his arms back and nearly fell from his stool. “ _Why didn’t anybody tell me-!?_ ”

“It’s not—?” Ori flushed. “Well, you know.”

“I meant Gimmers has found someone new,” Fí soothed. “Can’t stop bloody thinking about him.”

Damnit. This was going to far, too fast. “Fí—“

“Oh, now I remember!” Kí hiccoughed. “Fí caught him sneaking in!”

“THAT’S MY BOY!” Dwalin’s bearish hand cuffed him over the ear, left him seeing stars.

“He met him on online!” Kí continued.

“THAT’S MY BEARDED BOY!”

“…he’s not twenty,” Fí objected. “Saw him again. And, if I’m right about Gimmer’s limited alcohol intake and reluctance to join us, I think he’s got plans to see him again tonight!”

“BLESS YOU, LADDIE!” Dwalin pulled him into a teeth-shattering hug, weeping openly. “BLESS YOU!”

…And so the night wore on. And there were even more surprises to be had.

* * *

 “Uncle Thorin! Uncle Thorin, you’d never believe it! _Ori and Dwalin just got fucking engaged!”_

…Thorin? Uncle Thorin-? At a pub? Gimli wondered. Who the hell invited Thorin?

“Did you hear me, Uncle Thorin?” Kí persisted. “ _Ori and Dwalin just got engaged!”_ This was met with the same blank, betrayed stare one usually reserved for a broken coffee maker at 6 am. 

“Hmph.” Thorin nodded vaguely in the lovers’ direction as if they’d done him personal insult with their happiness.

[Mahal, Thorin. Bitter much?]

“And what’ll you be having?” Rosie popped ‘round.

…silence.

“Another ale, then?” she continued after a moment. “Splendid, lads. Shall I just add it to the tab?”

“SEVEN ROUNDS—“

“Dwalin!” Fí shouted to be heard. “I think the lady knows.”

“…for everyone,” he mumbled as Ori patted his hand. “‘nother seven rounds.”

“You’re fucking drunk.” Thorin grunted once Rosie’d gone.

“YOU’RE FUCKING UGLY!” Dwalin roared.

“Take him home,” Thorin muttered to Ori as the poor boy squirmed under his stern gaze. And—in a move that Gimli could’ve predicted down the the second—all Hel broke lose.

“I’LL TAKE YOUR WHORE MOTHER HOME!” The Azanulbizar veteran launched himself across the table, kilts askew, long arms landing blows as they all rushed as one to grab him. “NOBODY TALKS TO GHIVASHEL LIKE THAT!”

And things might have gotten ugly, too—Dwalin’s fist had wrestled loose from his and Fí’s grip again and Thorin was snarling—had a certain Hobbit not taken that time to appear.

“Boggins!” Kí raised his glass, dropping Dwalin face-first onto the table, entirely forgetting the fight. “Hooray, Boggins!”

“Well, well, well!” Baggins beamed, thumbs in the pockets of his waist-coat, taking in their scuffle-turned-all out brawl as if it were the most refreshing thing he’d ever seen. “Would you look at that. Would you just look at that! You’re here, I’m here—by coincidence, entirely by coincidence, don’t you know? Imagine the odds! Who would believe?”

“But that’s a _Hobbit_ ,” Dwalin gibbered, the confusion knocking the fight right out of him. “Ghivashel—that’s a _Hobbit_. Why is there a Hobbit here?”

“Reasons?” Ori offered, shrugging under his knitted sweater.

“’T’s good enough.” And the great bloody fiend fell back asleep, bald head slumping onto his lover's shoulder.

“…all right lads?” Rosie peaked in, and something about her manner made Gimli certain the tiny Hobbit lass could wrangle Dwalin and Thorin in a fight one-handedly.

“Alright? Not alright at all—it’s damned _splendid,_ that’s what it is!” Baggins said. “Absolutely splendid!” And the barmaid-who-would-be-a-bouncer threw a suspicious glance through her curtain of curls, then curtsied away.

“Say it’s awful crowded,” the Hobbit continued, looking around with flourish, swaying back on his heels, arms swinging by his sides. “Popular place, this! Don’t know if I’ll find a seat— been on my feet all day, love to have a drink, take a load off, I don’t suppose you boys would mind if—?”

“Not at all,” Fí said, perhaps a little too graciously. “Pull up a chair, Bilbo. Feel free to join.”

“Bilbo?” Gimli pulled him aside. “Since when have you and Mr. Baggins been on a first name basis?”

“Since he called the shop immediately after Uncle left his place saying he’d inadvertently lost his cell phone number, and such a shame, as he’d only wanted to call and thank Thorin personally for the wonderful work he’d done and oh-so-quickly, too.”

Gimli sighed. “And I suppose you accidentally slipped we’d be here tonight?”

“How absolutely thoughtless of me, yes.” Fí took a long draught of the Dragon’s finest ale, and closed his eyes to sigh contentedly. “The Dragon really _does_ make the best ale in Ennorath, you know.”

“You’re really doing this, then,” Gimli blurted. “You’re going to break his Mahal-damned heart.”

“On the contrary. I’m going to make Thorin fall in love.”

“Day that happens, I’ll eat my bloody beard.”

“Deal,” Fí downed another swig of ale with a wink. “Now slip out of here, Gimmers. You look miserable, if you don’t mind my saying so. Dwalin’s drunk and Ori’s overwhelmed with all the attention. I can make sure you won’t be missed. Go find your boy.”

…that, at least, didn’t merit any argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lulkhê (Neo-Khuzdul): My fool  
> LLKH [CuCC] (n., singular emphatic) + -ê (pron., suffix, first person singular possessive)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another night at Mirrormere turns from fun to terrifying, and a selkie’s idea of breakfast in bed is less romantic than it sounds.

The Mirrormere was hauntingly empty. Not even gulls winged above. Nothing but the unending rumble of waves against sand.  _Nothing._ The thought terrified him. “Legolas?” Gimli called, huffing down the shore with sweat in his beard. “Legolas? Legolas!”

And that panic, that Mahal-damned panic that he wasn’t real, that he’d lost his mind, that the selkie would swim away, never to be seen again tore at his throat and heart until he was gasping for air from the raw, wounded ache of it.

“ _Legolas-!_ ” 

And suddenly the selkie was there, emerging from the waves, running across the sand with that lovely, even, rhythmic gait, long limbs outstretched and hair streaming behind him like a grey curtain of rain. The surety of it sent him reeling to his knees.

“You came back you came back Oh my Gimli you came back!” Then they were entwined as if all the long, lonely hours they’d never been apart, lithe body all around him, fingers lost in hair, and the kisses, kisses, _kisses_ that came from that soft, sweet mouth—!

Gimli felt the day falling off him as they melted together, those wicked fingers working their way up and through his clothes, tearing lacings, bindings, buttons alike. “I said you would I said you would I _knew_ you would I was so worried, so worried I was alone, all alone, alone for so long—“

“Won’t leave you,” he found himself breathing, mumbling, sobbing into that sweet mouth as he pressed the selkie firmly beneath him in the sand. “Won’t leave you.”

“You’re here now you’re here now—” Legolas whined as his own clumsy hands fumbled with his trousers, desperate to press himself against that warm, wet skin, impatient to just be inside, pulling, prying, spreading those legs apart so he could find his way—

“Please please please please Gimli my Gimli oh _please_ please say I am pretty say I am clever say you love me love me love me,” the selkie begged him as slipped inside.

…he meant to. Mahal, did he mean to.

* * *

He’d also meant to prepare. Bring— _things._

[Condoms, Mahal-damnit. He’d forgotten the fucking condoms.]  
[Again.]  
[His Amad would fucking kill him.]

Legolas was limber and seemingly immune to chafing but Mahal-damnit spit and cum were no replacement for proper lube, and as thrilling as it had been to just go in, no preparation no thoughts just dry there was no bigger boner-killer than the concern you’d tear your partner open, even with such a taut, gorgeous arse bucking against your hips and the positively sinful wails coming from those soft lips beneath you. Between that worry and the bloody sand everywhere Gimli couldn’t decide if it was the best—or worst—fuck of his life.

[Didn’t help there was that bloody, speckled red seal just staring the whole time.]  
[Hey love, sex is great an all, but you would mind telling your friend to fuck the fuck off?]

Then Legolas came, sprawling gracelessly back into the sand, limp and moaning, bringing Gimli with him and that was it. He came deep inside that hot, tight hole, and that silver shroud of weightlessness swallowed him anew.

He didn’t know how long they’d lain there, awkwardly entangled, and he wished they could lay there forever, stuck together still, but Mahal-damnit his back wasn’t as young as it used to be and his joints burnt fiercely even through the afterglow. “Fucking Mahal,” he managed to gasp some moments later, sliding his limp cock out with a resigned sigh. “Fucking. Mahal.”

“But, my Gimli, I thought you were fucking _me?”_ Those deep, wide eyes blinked innocently, lashes flitting.

Gimli groaned in laughter, ribs, belly, cock aching. “Mahal-damn you!” And somehow pillow talk and post-coital cuddling turned into an all out wrestling match on the sand. Hair pulling, sand slinging, clumsy slaps and tickling fingers. At one point Legolas even eluded a headlock by reaching back to stroke his cock, and Gimli released him with a yelp of surprise. All was fair, it seemed, in love and war.

The selkie was fast and slick, and no matter how hard his hands grasped Legolas would only wriggle away, yipping and giggling, thrashing against him. Crawling, slithering, bounding away only to return for more. Leading him, ever leading him, luring him closer to the roaring waves.

“The fuck do you think you’re going?” Gimli half-laughed, half-shouted, stumbling after him through the shifting sand, raving mad with laughter and lust. “I’m not done with you yet!”

But the selkie only capered into the water, laughing and singing, eyes enraptured, his beautiful body stark against the grey sea.

 _Nae! Im edhil dhem, gaear-vróg nîniel_  
_Sí nan ‘aear, nan ‘aear linnathon_  
_A! Enni, enni tôg velethron vain_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rí hí rho_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rího rho_

He lamented in that silky, liquid tongue. The sound was enough to make even the most unmusical Dwarf ache with want. “I—bloody hell, you tease!” Gimli called from the shore, letting the very fingers of the waves lap over his feet. “I can’t fucking swim!”

 _Nae! Im edhil dhem, uibalan-díriel_  
_Sí nan menel, nan menel nallathon_  
_A! Enni, enni tôg velethron vain_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rí hí rho_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rího rho_

“I told you, I can’t swim! Legolas, Legolas, please! Mahal-damnit, what do you want? I’ll go down on you, you ridiculous creature!” he cajoled in desperation. “I’ll suck you ’til you’re sore! I’ll lick that gorgeous arse until you forget your own name! Or you can fuck me, if that’s what you want! Legolas! Please! Just tell me what you want!”

 _Fa-la-lha-la, hi rí hí rho_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rího rho_

In the waves the selkie was weightless, gleaming, so beautiful it took his breath away. He was hard, hard as a Dwarf could be, and still Legolas continued to torment and tease, long hair netted behind him like strands of starlight.

“Fine!” Gimli threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine—if that’s what you want—“ Legolas was a _selkie_ , Mahal-damnit. And the water wasn’t all that deep--it's not like he was going to drown. He wouldn’t have to swim, and he needed, needed, yes _needed_ to know what that pearlescent skin would feel like against his.

 _A! Im edhil ‘elir, Ech i-velethron-nîn vain_  
_Nuin dhuinen, nuin nannen_  
_Go-linnathanc, ui go-linnathanc!_

Legolas sang, voice filled with joy, with triumph—

“Hope you’re bloody happy!” Gimli called, the swirling waters surging warm against his ankles, knees, then waist.

  
_Sí lasto i-laim en-mÿl, lasto i-lam-nîn lind_  
_Nuin falas rhaw go-linnathanc_  
_i-‘aear i-mbar-vîn, i-‘aear i-mbar-gîn ‘wain!_

“You’re a bloody nuisance, you know that?” Gimli laughed as the selkie darted away under the waves again, only allowing one tantalizing touch, slick skin and spangled hair brushing sensuously against his legs. “You’re a Mahal-damned tease!”

 _Fa-la-lha-la, hi rí hí rho_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rího rho_  
_Fa-la-lha-la, hi rí, hi-rhô!_

He waded out recklessly, heedlessly, eyes on the selkie, always. Never saw the wave that drove him off his feet.

Shit! his panicked brain shouted in the ensuing chaos. Shit, we’re going to die here all because you couldn’t keep it in your pants!

But logic told him the water hadn’t carried him. Even dark and breathless with salt stinging his eyes he couldn’t be far from shore, the sea couldn’t be that deep, and he struggled to his feet, gasping for breath through the film of his beard as his head broke the surface.

The selkie was on him before his aching lungs could fill. Legolas was _strong_. Alarmingly so. Lean muscle under sleek, smooth skin. Those long limbs trapped him, wrapping arms to his sides, nearly suffocating him, and there was a hunger darker than want in his lover’s eyes.

STOP. DON’T.  
RUN.

…it wasn’t the first time his brain had sent that warning. But he was helpless now, at his mercy, and Gimli had the gut-wrenching feeling it was far too late.

“Mine.” Those pretty, bared teeth gleamed above him in the moonlight, iridescent as pearl, sharp as diamonds. So this—this—was what if felt like to be prey. Everyone knew the old songs, the tales, the strange disappearances around the Mirrormere, the seemingly silly, superstitious whisperings that followed them—how had he forgotten?  Ever allowed himself to think his fate would be any different?

The selkie bit then, straight into his neck, drawing bright blood, licking, nuzzling, suckling at the wound as the waves rushed overhead. “Mine,” Legolas whispered. “Mine forever.”

* * *

 In his dreams he heard the most disgusting slurping sound, the breaking of bones, tearing of flesh, remembered those teeth against him, biting him, devouring him, blood on those pale lips, dripping from snapping jaws, had nightmares about that mouth around his cock, suddenly clamping down, filling with blood, tearing him to pieces.

Gimli shuddered awake. Found himself wet and cold, salt and sand encrusting him in the pre-dawn light with a throbbing pain in his shoulders, face, and neck, skin raw and stinging.

 _Sluuuu-uurp!_ There is was again—that horrible sound! He wheeled to find Legolas crouched in the sand, head thrown back, gagging down a wriggling mass of sand eels, mouth gaping.

The sight made him sick.  
…the sight made him _hard._

[And he accused Kí of watching weird porn.]

He imagined shoving himself that deep into the selkie’s warm throat, feeling that rhythmic sucking about him, those eyes closed in rapture as his mouth filled with cum—

Then he abruptly remembered his dreams from the night before and the reality of nearly fucking drowning. The Mahal-damned creature had tried to kill him!

 _Hack, hack, sluuu-uurp! Gulp!_ Legolas smacked his lips, shook his hair, whole body, burped in contentment, lapping grease and blood from his face and hands.

RUN, his brain told him, DAMNIT, RUN. 

[Run while you still can.]

But even the slightest movement caught the selkie’s attention. “You’re awake you’re awake you’re awake now!” Legolas sprang over, eyes wild with joy. “Oh what fun what fun what fun we shall have!”

He bent to lick him, suck him, but there were still scales and bits of flesh stuck between his teeth, and beautiful, Mahal-damned _begging_ to be fucked as he was Gimli no longer trusted him. “Oh, Mahal no!” Gimli shot up, covering himself forcefully. “You _bit_ me!”

[Nearly bloody killed me!]

“You are delicious,” Legolas purred—or was this a growl?—stalking him from his belly, that unslaked gleam in his eyes again as he slunk forward on the sand. “If you weren’t my Dwarf I would eat you, eat you all up! You are mine now, mine forever.”

“Stay back!” Gimli ordered, inching away as the selkie’s smooth body coiled like a spring, preparing to strike. “Mahal-damnit I’m warning you—“

Then Gimli slipped over something slimy, and fell flat on his arse into a mound of what felt like a thousand fish, some still alive and wriggling, gasping in the air, gills clicking.

_“The fuck—!?”_

“I brought you fish,” Legolas sang with fierce pride, pawing through the mountain around him, spilling cod, haddock, herring, bits of octopi and broken crabs about for him to admire. “Fish, fish, fresh fish! Lots of fish! I thought you might be hungry so I hunted! I hunted for you! Are you pleased, my Gimli? Are you hungry? Do you like fish? Do Dwarves eat fish? We eat fish! Fish are good! Look, look, see?” And those teeth tore a haddock apart, swallowed it in three whole pieces, raw guts and blood dripping down and landing with a sickening plop! on his belly.

Breakfast in bed, Gimli thought glumly. It was certainly never anything he’d gotten from Ári. Legolas was _trying_ , Mahal-damnit. He was really trying—he was just a bloody, fucking, stupid selkie.

 _…and this,_ Gimli sighed as his lover licked the congealed mess from his skin, lapping at blood trails down to his groin then clamping the tight line of his lips down around his cock, _is why you didn’t date a selkie, never mind bring one ‘round for dinner_. But he let Legolas suck him off anyways, gritting his teeth, miserably aware of the dead, staring eyes around them and what felt like a school of cod flopping against his bare arse in their final death throes.

He’d been wrong last night— _this_ was the worst sex of his life. He’d never dare laugh at Kí’s awkward encounters again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …so I googled harbor seal mating habits, and the potential for miscommunication during selkie sex was just too hilarious. Legolas' idea of a romantic encounter involves blowing bubbles, nuzzling, biting the fuck out of his lover's face and neck, and holding him underwater for up to half and hour while fucking. You know, as one does. 
> 
> And to think, poor sirens and mermaids have been getting a bad rap for ages when all they wanted was just a little love :( It's not their fault their oxygen storage capacity is so much higher than ours...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli reflects on relationships past, present, and future...and debates what to do with a shit-ton of fish. Fíli helps.

Of five things he was somewhat certain:

  1. Legolas was a selkie
  2. Selkies were messy, disgusting, Mahal-damned carnivores
  3. His lover was a fucking lunatic who had bit him, drowned him, stated outright that he “tasted delicious” and “I would eat you, eat you all up”,  couldn’t quite separate feeding from fucking and had brought him forty fucking kilos of raw fish and _a blow job in said raw fish_ as a wake up present
  4. There was a small, albeit still somewhat squeamish part of him that was completely okay with this
  5. And that scared him shitless.



…and that, Gimli supposed, was the story of how spiders hadn’t gone extinct yet in a nutshell. And how, after thirty panicked seconds staring into Legolas’ eager eyes he’d convinced himself that people ate sushi and shit all the Mahal-damned time and enjoyed it so how bad could it really be—?

[Answer: fucking horrible.]

He was, he reluctantly reflected, doomed to die alone after a series of increasingly awful passive-aggressive relationships, the latest in which he’d successfully been guilt-tripped into eating a fucking fish, at least sampling a dozen others, and gagging down a mouthful each of octopus and crab leg while insisting, _no really, thank you, it was quite delicious but I couldn’t possibly eat another bite_ all because he didn’t have the balls to say no to some hot piece of ass. It was also how he found himself stumbling home at five in the morning bleeding from literal love bites and carrying an armful of fish.

 _The bloody fuck am I going to do with these?_ he grumbled. Ári’d never gone out of his way to even get him so much as a fucking Durin’s day present, let alone surprise him with one, and the fish had at one point been living creatures and technically speaking were a very thoughtful, practical gift that had taken time to…prepare? so he couldn’t justify throwing them away. No, his best option was to sneak in before the lads were up yet, put them in the fridge/freezer and pass them off as the groceries. It’d be enough to convince Kí, and Fí would be smart enough not to say a word.

Content with his plan and still grimacing from fish breath, Gimli rounded the gate to the house only to stop, dumbfounded, an armful of cod and crab legs tumbling to the dirt.

Uncle Thorin was fast asleep on the porch steps, pipe falling half out of his hand, and sitting next to him—grinning as broadly as ever—was a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins.

…so much for sneaking in.

“Good morning!” called Bilbo. “Lovely day for a stroll!”

“It’s 5 am,” Gimli said pointedly.

“So it is!” The Hobbit puffed a perfect smoke-ring. “Good morning!”

“You’ve been here all night—?” Gimli asked weakly, gathering up those Mahal-damned fish.

“And you haven’t,” the Hobbit winked. “Good morning!”

Well, for one of them, he supposed it was.

* * *

He had to tiptoe over Thorin as the Hobbit hummed happily to himself around the stem of his pipe, then sneak into the kitchen as quietly as he could. But Mahal-damned fate seemed determined to thwart him at every turn: Dwalin and Ori were nestled together on the couch, that great oaf spread out, legs hanging over the armrest, head in his fiance’s lap. And Ori was bloody awake and stroking the tattoos on his forehead.

“Hey,” Ori acknowledged him shyly.

“Um, hey.”

“Why fish?”

“Reasons?” Gimli tried, earning a soft giggle.

“I suppose that’s good enough,” then Ori snuggled himself back against the cushions, pulled his sweater collar over his face like a blanket, and went to sleep.

* * *

 And of course Fí would be in the kitchen making coffee, already dressed and groomed for work.

“Hey, Gimmmers—I, um, fish—?” he asked, bemused.

“For the love of all things holy we will never speak of this again.”

“Hey, if it works for you,” his cousin shrugged. “I’m not the one who has to explain to his doctor how he caught crabs on the third date.”

“I. Will. Murder. You.”

[And selkie or not remember to bring and use bloody protection, damnit.]

“How was it?” Fí asked, pouring mugs for both of them as Gimli rinsed and dried his catch.

“Weird,” Gimli sighed.

“Weird? Like he’s into weird kink, or something?"

“No, just…weird.”

His cousin pondered for a moment, then asked, “You going back?"

...Was he?

[Don’t you dare, his rational brain told him.]  
[Fuck off, the rest said.]

“You know what? Sorry—none of my business,” Fí apologized between sips. “I’m just used to, to well, _babysitting_ Kí the morning after. So if you want to tell me, that’s fine. But I won’t pry.”

“Legolas,” Gimli blurted suddenly, as Fí’s face lit into a smile. “His name is Legolas and that’s all you’re getting for now.” What else was he supposed to say? 'Yes, and he’s a Mahal-damned, impossible selkie who happens to really, really, _really_ like sex.'

[And fish.]

But the shameful part was that was about all he really knew. So he fell back on an old Firebeard proverb: if you can’t beat ‘em, change the subject. He grabbed a fillet knife and went to cutting—less mess than gutting, and no selkies around to tell him otherwise. “Thorin and…Bilbo? Did they—?”

“Sit out on the porch all night smoking and swapping stories?” Fí frowned. “Yes. But it’s a start.”

“I’m not eating my beard just yet.”

“You will!” Fí assured him. “Wake Kí at noon then get both of your asses down to the shop and if you do anything to disturb Thorin in any way I will personally write Amad and tell her what you’ve done.”

“That’s low, Fí," Gimli said. "Even from you.”

“This is all going to work, you’ll see,” Fí said confidently, placing his empty mug in the top row of the dishwasher. “Now there’s, well, eggs and toast and such for breakfast, fish and chips for lunch and I’m sure we can have the boys around for dinner some night and see to those crab legs. Wake Kí at noon, under no circumstances let Dwalin drive home, if Baggins and/or Thorin needs a place to sleep they’re welcome to my room—clean sheets already out, and I’ve laid extra towels down in the bathroom, just in case anyone fancies a shower.”

Gimli snorted. “You really think you’ve got this all figured out, don’t you.”

“Not in the slightest,” Fí laughed. “And I nearly forgot—your ax is in your room.”

Gimli nearly cut his thumb. “How the bloody hell did Dori manage that?”

“It was Ori, actually,” Fí shrugged. “Said all he wanted for a wedding present was for his friends to be happy and his own brother to be able to attend the ceremony. I guess the old rascal’s got a soft spot for his kid brother after all.”

Gimli only grunted, still angry, and more than a tad embarrassed.

“So that’s the end of it, Gimmers," Fí insisted. "Truce, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Promise I won’t kill him with it on my honor as a Longbeard, may my Amad’s beard wither and my Adad go bald, etc. etc.. Or kill him at all. Or hurt him in anyway.”

…but pureed fish guts poured through the window seals of his car? Now _that_ was a different story.

"Good enough," his cousin reasoned. "Now get a shower and some sleep-you smell like fish. And sex!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli gets to know more about Bilbo-and maybe even Legolas-over breakfast.

He really had meant to take a leaf from one of Ori’s many books get some (more) sleep himself, but somewhere between filleting at least three dozen fish and the clean-up he started to whistle, hum, then sing. Gimli had always been musical—never professional, mind—but always had a tune stuck in his head, always singing, ever since he was a young Dwarrowling. Adad would always say Mahal’d been playing his great war hammers the night he and Amad had fucked…and Amad would always counter it was because Uncle Óin had dropped him on his head as a baby. But whatever the reason, it’d stuck with him all his life, and meeting Legolas had only made it worse. He only remembered snippets, small snatches of those rolling, liquid syllables from those sweet lips, but it didn’t stop him singing.

 

> _Nuin dhuinen, nuin nannen_  
>  _Go-linnathanc, ui go-linnathanc_  
>  _Nuin falas rhaw go-linnathanc_  
>  _i-‘aear i-mbar-‘wîn, i-‘aear i-mbar-gîn ‘wain._

The song was haunting, and he had no idea what it meant, but it was stuck, wedged well and good between his ears, and no amount of shaking could get it out.

He heard stirring behind him as he scraped the scraps into the compost, the light smack of bare feet against tile. It had to be the Hobbit. “Ah-now don’t do that, my boy!” Bilbo Baggins cried. “You’ll want to keep those! Boil ‘em down and make a good broth, those will.”

“Um—“

“Here, now. Where do you keep your pots? One with a heavy bottom, mind!”

“You don’t have to—“

“Nonsense,” Bilbo insisted. “Won’t take a minute. You’ll thank me for it!” he flung the refrigerator and pantry open. “Eggs, cream, butter—and crab! That’ll make a lovely hollandaise. Carrots, too! Now let me think—celery? No. Onions? Yes, yes, shallots, hmm. Garlic? Well now, this I can work with!”

“You’re making breakfast?”

[That wasn’t raw fish, thank Mahal?]

“A proper breakfast, mind! Least I could do. Figure your mates could use it—celebration, and all,” Bilbo nodded to Ori and Dwalin, still curled together on the couch. “Say, you wouldn’t know if by chance _everyone_ would be okay with sea food? I could make something else, if you’d like!” Everyone, of course, in this context meaning a very pointed _your Uncle Thorin._

“What? No, he’s—we’re—fine with whatever.”

“Splendid! I’ll just whip this right up, then, shall I?”

And so Gimli was met with the odd—but not uncomfortable—scenario of sharing the small kitchen with Bilbo Baggins, a had-been-customer for over two years who’d suddenly wound up in their home. Ah, well. Given his current partner (and the wounds on his neck and the plates of fish he’d just placed in the fridge and freezer), he supposed stranger things in Arda had happened. The little Hobbit knew his way around a kitchen, that much was certain. He deftly made his way about, chopping with effortless finesse and alarming speed, whistling merrily while he worked.

For a moment, he envied Thorin. They weren’t together—not yet, perhaps never—but just the ability to share this space with someone. And it hurt, suddenly, to think this could never be his. He couldn’t imagine the selkie away from the shore, much less inside their home. Legolas would never—could never—meet Fí or Kí, Dwalin or Ori…let alone Thorin or Bilbo. There wouldn’t be a house, or a life, or—or bloody nights out or parties. There would be secrets, secrets and fucking, long hours apart and the bitterness that drove them away from each other. It was just too much, felt too much like Ári.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose Legolas. Not like that!

 _Bloody Hel,_ Gimli shook his head. _You’ve known him for three fucking days!_

“Oh-ho!” the Hobbit tsked. “Singing a selkie’s song? That’s dangerous, that.”

Mahal-damnit. Hadn’t even realized he’d been singing! “Selkies aren’t real,” Gimli argued, perhaps too quickly. Damn Firebeard blood! “Everyone knows that.”

“Then what words are you singing, hmm?” The Hobbit’s face shrugged as he helped himself to some coffee. “Answer me that. You Dwarves and Men might’ve renamed a lot of things ‘round here, but you’ll find things. Places, mostly—Belfalas? Still have that old selkie tongue. If they’re not real, lad, then answer me this: where did the words and stories come from?”

“That’s down in Gondor,” Gimli argued. “Bloody, sodding prudes will do anything to make themselves sound more officious.”

“True, true,” Bilbo agreed graciously, opening the pantry and straining on his tiptoes. “Now where—aha!” the Hobbit helped himself to a liberal amount of sugar. “But they had to get it from somewhere (unless they made the whole thing up, wouldn’t put it past them, mind. Weird lot, they are.). And the stories—how do you explain away the stories, hmm?”

“Folklore,” Gimli grunted. “Some damn horny sod out at sea too long who thought a seal looked like a woman.”

[Maybe if you…squinted?]  
[Nope. Still nothing.]

“Poor buggers,” Bilbo laughed. “Never quite seen the appeal, me. Rather odd, misshapen creatures the lot of them!”

“The seals…or the women?”

“Now, now, Gimli, my boy—I can call you Gimli?—That’s taking it quite too far. Your mother was a woman, and a damned good one at that!”

Gimli blinked. “You know Amad?”

“Nonsense. Know her? It’s written all over you! Three unmarried Dwarf-lads sharing a kitchen? This place should be hairier than a Proudfoot’s knuckles and yet here you are at an unholy hour in the morning polishing! No offense meant, my boy, but taking care, that’s not something you learned from dear old Glóin.”

“How do you know Adad?”

“Spent the whole night listening to that bleary-eyed Uncle of yours! Couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” Bilbo winked. “Not much to say about himself, but he’d talk about family for hours, and if nothing else it’s an interesting tale. We Hobbits do love a bit of genealogy—nothing like a good, old fashioned family tree, no sir!” He beamed.

“…but that song you’re singing just now, that’s not something you found in a book or online or from your parents, either. You’ve had an _encounter._ You’ve _seen one.”_

Gimli felt his breath knocked out. That little bugger! Lulling him into a talk about Amad and Adad just to spring this on him. “That—“ Gimli began cautiously, “is patently ridiculous.”

“Is it now?” Bilbo raised an eyebrow, going back to his hollandaise and crab cakes. “You go on and tell me you weren’t singing a selkie’s song just now.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“No?”

“I—“ Gimli stopped. “If—if!—they ever even existed, then it was a long time ago.”

“Then how do you explain the stories?”

“Superstition? Folkore? Mahal-damnit, sometimes people just drown. Get drunk. Fall in. Get too down with the weight of it all. Fuck’s sake. There doesn’t need to be any bloody creature pulling them in.”

He didn’t know why he was so defensive so suddenly. And—a small part of him wondered—was he defending himself, or Legolas? The daft creature had tried to…well, not _purposefully_ drown him, he was now certain, and he hadn’t _meant_ to hurt him, it’s just those teeth were so Mahal-damned sharp his love-bites drew blood. And skin. And perhaps a tiny bit of muscle as well and oh, Hel.

[Not to mention his idea of a romantic meal left much to be desired.]

 

> _Under high tides, under low tides_  
>  _We will sing, ever will we sing_  
>  _Under the wild waves we will sing_  
>  _The sea is our home, the sea will be your home_

Bilbo chanted, and the tune stopped him in his tracks.

“Interesting—yours is a different dialect than I’ve heard before. You must’ve stumbled across some other clan, then. But it’s still some-what mutually intelligible, and the tune is unmistakable,” Bilbo straightened and looked him square in the eye. “Now tell me that’s not a selkie’s song, and I’ll ask you what in the name of the Thain else it could possibly be.”

“You believe in selkies,” Gimli changed tactics, tried to pass himself for a skeptic.

“You make it sound as if they need believed in to be real.”

“You believe in selkies, and you think you speak their language.”

“Language, languages,” Bilbo shrugged. “Linguistically it’s more a matter of variant dialects diversifying over time, but there’s no denying they’re branches from a common tongue.”

“So what—you speak _seal?”_

“Don’t be rude, my boy. It doesn’t suit you. And they’re not seals—at least, they weren’t always. There are still a few among them who remember. But I think perhaps many of them have been in the water so long they’ve forgotten who and what they once were, became animals truly, and they’re gone now, gone forever. And some of them—sirens, mermaids, those stories of sailors being lured?—went wicked and wanted revenge against anything that went on shore, walked on two legs. And some of them—well. Like the one you met. They’re wild now, untamed, neither wicked nor good, simply are. Perhaps as they should be.”

“You know that sounds Mahal-damned insane, right?” Biting his lip as he knew he'd crossed a line.

“My dear Dwarf!” Bilbo laughed, far from offended. “I am a fifty-year-old quite confirmed bachelor—and that’s a thing unheard of amongst us Shire-folk—my mother came from a monied family and she was a full-blooded _Took,_ rest her soul, and she believed in selkies—swore up and down she’d seen one—until the day she died. So you’ll understand if my interests seem eccentric!”

“Like Uncle Thorin, for instance?”

The Hobbit laughed, flushed, raised a finger to counter—then dropped it, head shaking. “Fair enough, fair enough. But I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can see that. No matter, no matter. But if you are ever interested, I do have books on the subject. Photographs. Recordings. Interviews. That sort of thing.”

“What? No online chat rooms, websites?” Gimli grinned.

“Oh, no, my boy. If you were an ancient being whose very existence depended on secrecy, what’s the first thing you’d do with your personal information popping up all over the internet?”

“Erase it?”

“Far too suspect, and too much bloody work!” Bilbo tutted. “No. You infiltrate it. Misinformation. Counter-intelligence. Make us Men and Dwarves and Hobbits sound incredible, insane, convince the world we’re mad until the point even if someone were to provide indisputable evidence, no one would believe them. The problem solves itself!” The Hobbit said in all seriousness. “You won’t find a scrap of reliable information online, and that’s that.”

Oh, Mahal. It was worse than he’d thought. The Hobbit was _intelligently_ delusional. “You’re what? One of those cryptozoology people, aren’t you.”

“What? No! You think an ancient and powerful people who’ve survived thousands of years on the fringes of society could possibly be detected with _science—?”_ Bilbo’s face soured in distaste, only to brighten again as he tested the sauce. “Mmm! The old Gaffer would be proud—here, have a sip—“

“But no,” he mumbled around a napkin, dabbing traces of butter, cream, and flakes of shallot and crab from his strange, hairless face. “Weirdos and whack-jobs and a waste of my tax-dollars, thank you very much! I won’t have it! They’re magic-folk, Gimli Glóin’sson, plain and simple, seeped in lore and secrets. You can’t _find_ folk like that, my boy. Not for trying. But if you’re pure of heart and want to see one—well. Sometimes they let themselves be found.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is served. Thorin lets Bilbo down gently.

“Mahal-bless you, Mr. Boggins, this is the best fucking breakfast I’ve ever had!” Kí hummed through a forkful of eggs-benedict over crab cakes. “’S fucking delicious!”

“Manners,” Thorin grunted.

“Oh, come now, Thorin, the boy meant no harm,” the Hobbit said, then turned back to Kí and Ori. “Eat up! There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“It is good,” Thorin relented. A half-assed, completely Dwarven apology if Gimli’d ever heard one.

“I don’t like green food,” Ori prodded the fish stew, swirling shallots and cabbage with his fork.

“Hmph,” Dwalin commented, cramming his face with another crab cake, which he’d taken to eating by the fistful. “Eat it, Ghivashel, or I will.”

“But I don’t—“ But Dwalin reached over, plunked a spoon in, and held it up to his lover’s lips like one might do a small child.

Ori flushed, but took the pro-offered bite anyways. Gimli sputtered, Kí began to giggle, and Thorin continued to stare miserably into his plate as if it had personally killed his childhood war-pig.

“Thoughts?” Bilbo asked, unabashed.

“Not bad?” Ori wondered. “For green food.”

“Not bad? Not bad-!?” Dwalin fumed. “It’s the best damn food you’ll eat in your life. Now shut up and eat!”

Another force-fed bite. Then another. Then a kiss on the very tip of Ori’s nose, which Ori returned gently, almost hesitantly, eyes open, against his lover’s upper lip.

Kí missed his mouth with his fork, Gimli nearly toppled out of his chair, and Thorin looked mutinous. Bilbo clapped his hands as it it was the very best thing in the world. “Young love!” he cried.

“Damned Dori and his spoiling you!” Dwalin sighed. “You’re going to eat your Mahal-damned vegetables if it kills me.”

“Did you know,” Gimli began. “I think that’s the very first time I’ve ever seen the two of you kiss.”

“Can’t have been,” Dwalin dismissed him brusquely, then thumped his fist down on the table. “Another!”

Rude as it was, the Hobbit was more than happy to comply.

“I um, this is weird,” Kí said, watching Bilbo serve more crab cakes, pour more stew, and refill glasses of coffee, orange juice, or (in Dwalin’s case) mimosas. “I mean, he’s playing host and he doesn’t even live here.”

“I don’t see you jumping up to help,” Gimli told him.

“I didn’t say _bad_ ,” Kí backpedalled quickly. “I just said _weird_.”

* * *

 

All in all, it made for a relaxing morning. They saw Ori and Dwalin off after brunch, the former dwarfed by the driver’s seat of Dwalin’s pick-up and the latter fuming at the arrangement. Bilbo was the next to go, cheekily spouting something about overstaying his welcome, but not until after he’d cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, wiped the counters, swept the floor, re-organized their spice rack and in general left the kitchen a thousand times better than he’d found it.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you, then?” he asked them—and especially Thorin—hopefully.

“If your washer breaks,” Thorin said. Even Kí had the decency to wince at that.

“Well now, can’t keep you folks another moment longer!” Bilbo certainly took it with more grace than Gimli ever could. “Good-bye, Gimli, Kíli, Thorin!”

“Bye, Boggins!” that idiot called.

“You know it’s Baggins, right?” Gimli asked, once the Hobbit’s curly head had disappeared out the front gate.

“Oh, I know,” Kí shrugged. “But he said he was perfectly happy being our Boggins. After two years, he’d sort of gotten used to it.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli sees the softer side of Fíli, and why he's so desperate to make everything work.

It was, unsurprisingly, another uneventful day at Sons of Durin Dwarven Crafting and Repairs. Fí had spent all morning bored out of his mind

[Read: inventoried the shop, double-checked the books, de-bugged a dozen laptops with the Dol Goldur virus. As one does.]

and missed the best breakfast ever prepared west of Bree.

“Thorin and Bilbo—?” He asked hopefully on seeing them.

“Dude!” Kí wailed. “He fucked it up! He fucked it up bad! Even I couldn’t’ve fucked it up that bad!”

“Couldn’t’ve been too bad,” Fí said. “Someone stopped by less than an hour ago and seemed genuinely disappointed you three weren’t in yet.”

“…Boggins was here?” Kí asked, flummoxed. “Why?”

“To return a wrench.”

“Thorin left his wrench—?” Gimli wondered. “Thorin never leaves a tool behind.”

“No,” Fí said. “No he doesn’t. Which leaves two scenarios: either Thorin left it on purpose, or Bilbo stole it to give himself an excuse to come back here.”

“My money’s on Bilbo.”

“Of course it was BIlbo. It’s obvious, really. He had no way of knowing how the night would pan out, didn’t even know he’d be meeting us until after he’d called yesterday. The wrench was only his insurance policy.”

“Oh, Mahal!” Kí chuckled. “Boggins is a genius!”

Gimli only shook his head. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s bloody brilliant,” Fí affirmed. “He’s hilarious, he’s kind—“

“—damned good cook,” Gimli grunted.

“—he had Thorin laughing, Gimmers. _Laughing._ I haven’t seen him that happy in ages. And it’s just—after everything, all he’s done—still doing—“  
Poor, dumb kid. Of course Thorin deserved to be happy. Couldn’t blame him for wanting it. But to risk someone else’s at his expense? That wasn’t far. Wasn’t fucking fair at all.

“Fí—“ he tried.

“I know you don’t agree, and—and it’s hard, for you, after everything with Ári—but he deserves to be happy,” his cousin choked. “He just does.”

“I know, Fí,” Gimli hugged him. “I know.”

* * *

 

They closed the shop at the end of the day, and Gimli wondered, not for the first time, how Sons of Durin ever managed to stay in business. Thorin and Frerin had started the place ages ago, but like all the Longbeards’ many ventures, anything that could go awry, did. Culminating, of course, with Frerin’s death. They’d all be young—very young—when the news came, and Gimli often wondered how Fí and Kí felt, working day in, day out behind the very same counter where their father was killed.

…even more often he wondered why they stayed. Kí stayed because it was the path of least resistance, clearly. Only job he’d ever had, only job in the Mahal-damned world where he could show up late (or not at all) and still manage to get paid. But Fí? Fí could’ve gone on to university, been a brilliant engineer. His cousin could code wonders, and it was painfully obvious from the books that it was Fíli’s computer knowledge and repairs that kept the business running.

It was for Thorin. It was all for Thorin. _It’s not a debt_ , he’d wanted to say for a long, long time. _He doesn’t expect, doesn’t want you to repay him._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli tries to make the night special, but misunderstandings get in the way.

“You’re leaving?” Kí asked him later that night, arms crossed in his doorway as he packed. “Again?”

“None of your business,” Gimli said.

“This is what—the fourth night in a row?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“Mahal-damnit,” his cousin sulked. “Why does everyone get so much ass but me?”

* * *

  _Of all the Mahal-damned times for a cash register to malfunction,_ Gimli groaned. The poor Stiffbeard girl—Nasim, from her name tag—looked just as miserable as he did. Only less in a I’m-so-damned-horny-would-you-please-hurry-up-so-I-can-fuck-my-Selkie and more in that I-can’t-believe-I’m-behind-the-register-for-this-shitton-of-booze-lube-and-condoms-complete-with-beach-blanket-at-midnight-purchase sort of terrified way that only a twenty-something year-old Stiffbeard in a headdress who’d never masturbated even once in her life could manage.

“I—“ the poor girl couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t manage anything more than a stammer, “help on register twelve?”

“For Mahal’s sake, Nasim,” a handsome, curvy Blacklock sighed as the girl’s dusky cheeks turned as red as his own beard, then proceeded to man-handle his purchases across the bar-scanner. “It’s only condoms.”

“Sorry about that,” she jerked her strong, bearded jaw. “Siyanda Filikedôttir, night manager. Poor girl’s barely old enough to braid her beard.”

“Er—“ what exactly was the proper response to a dwarrowdam starting a conversation over a pack of condoms? “Uh, sorry,” he tried to apologize to the girl. “Didn’t mean to offend anyone—“

“Offend?” Siyanda guffawed. “Bless your beard! You’re buying condoms! The more I can get these Mahal-damned kids to realize buying protection’s nothing to be ashamed of the better!”

…said the Dwarrowdam who just announced his sex life to the entire store. Gimli got the feeling her sentiments were a little misplaced.

“Now you finish up, dear,” she cooed. “And then get your skinny ass out of here—it’s a school night!”

“You’re um—“ he cast wildly about for a topic of conversation that couldn’t be considered statutory anything when you were a sixty-something year-old Dwarrow buying condoms from a kid. “Which school?”

“Daughters of Durin.”

“All Dwarrowdams?” Dís still donated to all their charities. It’d been one of his aunt’s deepest regrets she’d never had a daughter.

Nasim nodded meekly.

“So you’re a—what, Master?” He collected his bags, remembering that youthful feeling of awe when mistaken for someone just slightly older than yourself. Poor kid didn’t really look old enough to braid…

Shy smile. That was better. “No, I um. Journeyman.”

“Well, good luck to you, then!” Gimli called with a wave.

“Have a good ni—“ and that, Gimli supposed, was the story of how some poor Stiffbeard kid died of mortification in the corner pharmacy.

* * *

The selkie was lounging in a tide-pool with his—friend?—when Gimli arrived.

“You came back you came back you came back!” Legolas laughed, pouncing him to the sand and kissing every inch of him. “You’re here now you’re here now oh my Gimli you’re here now what fun we shall have!”

[The red seal, it must be said, didn’t share his enthusiasm.]

“We can go in the water! We can do the other things! We can fish! We can hunt crabs! We can do the other things! Can we do the other things again?” the selkie rushed in one long breath, pawing at him. “Please oh please _oh please_ can we?”

“You inpatient tease!” Gimli chuckled, trying—and failing—to disentangle himself from the selkie’s disrobing grasp. “Here, I brought us a few things—“ Not much. Didn’t have much money. He had quite the stash at home, but using the condoms you’d bought for your ex-boyfriend or the sex toys the two of you had shared with your new partner just seemed too wrong. But beach blanket, proper lube, some discount wine—those things could go a long way.

“A present a present!” Legolas quivered from head to toe, capering about. “See, see, Tauriel! A present, see?”

“What is it—can I eat it—is it delicious—what is it—I can eat it?—is it fish—did you eat your fish, my Gimli did you eat them? Did you like them? I caught you more—look, look!”

 _…Oh, Mahal-damnit._ Gimli’s heart sank at the small mountain of cod and crab. _And this_ , said a tiny voice inside his head, _is why you fucking communicate honestly with your partners._

The selkie fell on his duffel, and faster than you could say Zirik-zigil he’d strewn everything about. Damned creature was messier than Kí!

“What is it?” Legolas chirped from the sand. “What is it? Can I eat it?”

“Here—“ Gimli popped open a bottle of wine, holding it out so Legolas could inspect it. _A Shire's Eve,_ sweet summer white—he got the feeling the chemically smell of a dry wouldn’t suit the selkie. “Smell this.”

“What is it Gimli what is it?” Legolas frowned, licking the glass then grimacing and backing away. “No, No I—“

“Not the glass, you daft creature,” Gimli laughed. “Here.” He tilted back his own head, and took a short swig. Not bad—nothing extraordinary, mind, but not bad for a cheap summer date. “It’s wine, you beautiful fool. You drink it.”

“Wine?” Legolas padded over, curiosity getting the best of him. “What is wine?”

“It’s—you drink it. Just drink it, you daft creature.”

“ _Laich!_ ” the selkie’s bright eyes lit up with the blaze of a thousand shimmering stars. “ _Laich!_ Sweet! Sweet!”

And that was the moment, Gimli decided, that he was beard-over-arse in love with him. The selkie was a good lay, certainly, a feast for the eyes…but Legolas had a childlike, innocent joy, was capable of such excitement, such curiosity, such Mahal-damned wonder. He could happily spend the rest of his life just showing him things to watch the way he lit up.

 _Four days_ , his brain tried to argue. _Four fucking days._

 _I love him_ , Gimli thought. And that was that.

But there was also his penchant for biting, drowning, fucking _killing things_. Wild, Bilbo had said, and wild he was. He had the feeling as much as he loved him, Legolas could—Legolas would—hurt him, if given the chance. Not purposefully, not maliciously, not, not “wickedly”, but simply because that was who and what he was.

…he was also, for being so ancient and perilous, as worldly as a beardless babe. “Easy!” Gimli cried, trying to wrest the bottle away. “You Mahal-damned creature, you have to drink it slowly—“

But Legolas only giggled, and took a deeper draught. "Mahal-damnit, it’s not a game, you’ll make yourself sick!” but the harder he tried, the more he shouted, the faster Legolas wriggled away and drank. It’s a game, Gimli was horrified, he thinks it’s just another game—

…and that look of wild, fierce, carefree happiness turned to worry, then fear, ending with the selkie retching in the sand, crying in terror. “ _Aia! Aia! Ai, Elbereth!”_

“Legolas—“ Gimli ran to his side.

“ _Edraith, edraith_ ,” Legolas panted. “ _Ai! Edraith!_ ” Tauriel charged. He never saw her coming, just blur of rust-colored, dappled fur then she was on him.

“Mahal-damnit!” Gimli swore as the seal lunged at him, bear-like teeth bared, maws dripping with hate, screeching her ire. “I’m trying to help!” Legolas was crawling now, still heaving, fleeing towards the sea. And try as he might, call out as he might, the furious seal wouldn’t let him any closer.

“Legolas, Legolas wait! _Legolas—!_ ”

But only after the last traces of his bright hair and skin had disappeared in the grey waves did she finally relent.

“I get what you’re trying to do,” Gimli told her, sitting in the sand and drinking miserably. “You’re here to what—protect him? But I won’t hurt him. I was trying to help. You’ll tell him that—won’t you? You’ll tell him I’m sorry?”

 _Sitting in the sand, drinking alone, think you’re dating a selkie, now you’re what, talking to a seal—?_ his brain berated him. Y _ou know that’s crazy, right?_

But the speckled seal only snarled. “It’s just wine, Mahal-damnit!” he rolled the bottle towards her. “See?”

[Or smell.]

But Tauriel only crushed it in her strong jaws, unimpressed. Warily she sacked his duffel, rummaged her nose through the beach blanket, tore open the box of Telchar condoms, sniffed the bottle of Sea Silk with suspicion, whiskered lips wrinkling in distaste, forehead furrowed in a sneer, green, gleaming eyes never once leaving his.

“Oh, for Mahal’s sake!” Gimli snapped. “It’s only lube. He’ll thank me for it!”

Warily she hitched forward, her speckled coat dusted with sand, until she crouched in front of him, nosing every inch of his pants, waistline, and chest. It was—quite unmistakably—a pat down.

[As if Dwarves didn’t have to deal with those enough…]

Gimli crossed his arms. “Satisfied?” he grumbled.

She bellowed. Once. Twice. Three times. He felt his beard blow back, strings of the selkie’s spit and her horrible fish breath wafting over his face, her long teeth inches from his throat.

“Are we done?”

She made a noise like a snort or a sneeze, then flopped gracelessly backwards, one roll of her blubbery body at a time, glaring at him, those intelligent eyes and threatening scowl never leaving him until she hit the waves.

 _I don’t think she likes me_ , Gimli thought. But hate him or not, she didn’t dissuade him.

* * *

 Tauriel, whatever else she was, was good on her (well, it’d been his) word. He’d watched the waves nearly unblinking for an hour before they appeared again, two seals in the distance, but the pale glint of white-gold in the moonlight was undeniably his selkie.

Gimli stood stiffly, dropped the blanket he’d clutched around his shoulders back into his bag, and shuffled down to the shoreline.

“Legolas?” he called. “Legolas?”

They stuck to the deep for a long while, bobbing in an out of the dark tide, riding the waves. Then slowly, hesitantly, made their away along the shoals to the shore. He called his name again, softly, coaxingly, but the selkie—the seal—wouldn’t come.

 _He’s afraid_ , Gimli’s heart nearly broke. _He’s afraid of you_.

There was nothing for it. Between fish and crab legs he’d rather eat raw crab, so he went to work with his knife, finding the bottle opener worked well to crack. He ignored Legolas, watching with peripheral vision only, intent on the food before him, sucking raw crab from shell. It wasn’t long before the felt the rewarding tickle of whiskers against his neck.

“There you are,” Gimli said gently. “Would you like some?” The seal scooted forward, pulled along by powerful paws, clever eyes winking in his white face.

“Crab?” Gimli offered, and Legolas stole it gently from his hand, then gulped it down greedily. “More?”

“Look at you,” Gimli breathed, tracing the golden splotches of color on his creamy fur, cupping those chubby jaws between his hands to scratch behind Legolas’ cheeks as the selkie trilled in approval. “You’re beautiful even now.”

For the rest of the night they sat right on the water’s edge, watching the tide roll in then out. Legolas’ head lay in his lap, letting him stroke that soft fur, humming impatiently as Gimli shelled more crab, feeding him from his hand.

“The sun’s up, love,” Gimli said once that golden disk had risen above the waves, washing the shore in its brilliant light. “I have to go.”

He watched his selkie slip into the sea, Tauriel joining him swiftly from her perch on the rocks. As far as dates went, he’d had worse, he mused as he packed his bag with the shards of broken bottle glass and trundled home along he sand. It wasn’t their first miscommunication, and Mahal only knew it wouldn’t be their last.

* * *

 “How were things?” Kí moped over breakfast. The crab cakes weren’t nearly as good reheated, but still Mahal-damned delicious.

“Kí!” Fí objected.

“It’s fine,” Gimli grunted. “We sat on the beach and watched the waves.”

“All night?” Kí asked pointedly.

“All night.”

“You didn’t fuck?”

“We didn’t fuck.”

“Not at all?’ Kí pressed.

“Not at all.”

“On the fourth date?” Fí laughed, lightening with Gimli’s gentle encouragement. “Oh, Mahal. You’re getting serious, Gimmers, aren’t you?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fí and Kí have an argument, and Gimli discovers something sinister down at the beach.

He left home the next evening quite early. It was Friday night, and by all rights he should be out with the boys and helping poor Ori with his overwhelming wedding plans, but it was the weekend, damnit, he wanted as much time with Legolas as possible, he didn’t have to go into work tomorrow, but it’d be a Saturday and the fucking beach would be crowded. There was nothing for it--it was tonight, or wait 'til Monday.

“You know,” Fí said, “I think we see less of you now that you’ve moved in here than when you were in Dale!”

It was cheerful, but carefully worded. He sensed Ári’s name in the offing…but what of it? Ári had never really treated him right, he’d been too caught up in the idea of the handsome, cut Blacklock wanting him that he’d turned a blind eye to every fault. It was weird looking back to even a week ago and realizing how Mahal-damned immature you’d been.

“Well, between the three of us, someone’s got to get laid,” Gimli shrugged. “Mahal knows it’s not going to be you two.” 

“Hey!” Kí stiffened. “That’s not fair at all!”

“He was talking to me too, Kí,” Fí explained, “but you don’t hear me lashing out.”

“It’s not fair,” Kí’s face had gone red. “You have no idea how hard it is to be ‘The Hope of the Longbeard’s' younger brother!” He stormed out of the kitchen and slammed his bedroom door.

“Try being his older brother,” Fí sighed.

“You know people don’t really expect you—“

“They do,” Fí cut him off. “There’s a bunch of these idiots who blame the Longbeards for all the Dwarves’ suffering, and instead of doing something about it they just clamor for a King--as if re-instating some extinct political institution will somehow fix everything for everyone in the diaspora. I don’t see any of them stepping up to it, Thorin can’t, and I _won’t_ , so there you have it.” he sighed. “It’s why I don’t date.”

“Because you’re saving yourself for some future marriage alliance?” Gimli tried to tease, to lighten the mood.

“Because I can never be sure if some dwarrowdam’s after me because she likes me, or the idea of me. And even if—if I did fall in love—I couldn’t guarantee her safety. They only—“ he stopped, blinked, choked.

“I know,” Gimli grunted. “I know.”

…No one would’ve killed Frerin for Frerin himself. There was no reason to. To this day they didn’t know if the killers had mistaken him for Thorin, or merely intended to send Durin’s heir a message.

 _Either way,_ Gimli mused as he trudged down to the shore, _either way they got their wish._ The Dwarves had been Kingless ever since.

* * *

The beach was far from empty. Picnicking families eating, sunbathing women sprawled, small children shrieking in the waves all dotted the shore and waters. Gimli kept walking, kept a sharp eye on the water, trying to catch sight of a certain white seal. Their usual meeting spot was still a mile or so up ahead, but Gimli had a feeling Legolas wandered much further. It’d been a long time since he’d been on the beach in frank daylight, enjoying it for what it was (instead of running home), and he found the sight comforting. Adad and Amad had always brought him down here when they came up from Ered Luin to visit Uncle Frerin and Aunt Dís, and he found himself smiling fondly at the memories, nostalgic for the days when he was young, his family was happy, and the politics of the Seven Dwarven Clans still eluded him.

Then—a sign. Was it new? Had he passed it all these nights and mornings not paying attention? He frowned, squinted, then jogged the rest of the way down the beach to read it closely. It said what he feared it said:

DO NOT FEED WILDLIFE

Feeding wildlife decreases their natural fear of Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits.  
Feeding wildlife interrupts natural migration cycles.  
Feeding wildlife causes increased populations and hazardous waste making the beach unsafe.  
Feeding wildlife is DANGEROUS.

DO NOT APPROACH WILDLIFE

with a picture of a seal biting a child. And finally, perhaps most disturbing of all:

SEALS ARE PESTS, NOT PETS

Over which some (he didn’t know why he thought Hobbit, thought Bilbo) had scrawled a chilling message:

_your hands are white not clean_

All sponsored by Isengard Industries. Mines, fisheries, other stuff like that. He vaguely remembered a bunch of Hobbit protesters on the news a few years back when the company had expanded and opened a branch here, but that was about all he knew.

The signs shouldn’t bother him. Just PSAs for families with small kids, reminding them not to let their kiddos mistake a wild animal for their pet dog. For fishermen reminding them not to throw out chum or release bait fish near the piers to avoid pollution and increased gull populations…right? And that graffiti, just some silly Whole Arda Initiative protestors ineffectively trying to change the world. But the sign felt sinister to him, something he couldn’t put his hammer on, but he’d eat his ax if it didn’t have something to do with selkies.

He’d just pulled out his phone, typed Isengard Industries Esgaroth into the Gwaihir search engine when he heard a loud round of laugher from children. Startled, he looked up, and there was that idiot Legolas in seal form, trilling and spinning in the waves and doing his bloodiest to put on a show and impress and attract his attention.

…not twenty feet away from the Mahal-damned signs.

“Shoo!” Gimli called to the selkie. “Not here!”

“Aw, come on mister!” a group of adorable little Stiffbeard girls called, their thin beards not even long enough to braid, building sandcastles dressed in their strange, whole-body swimsuits that left only their faces, hands, and feet exposed. “She’s not hurting anybody!”

“…er, she?” Gimli asked them.

“She’s too pretty to be a boy!”

“She’s white and gold! The boy seals aren’t as pretty!”

“The boy seals are fat and silly looking!”

“She’s too nice to be a boy!”

Well, _pretty_ he certainly was. “And why can’t boys be pretty, too?”

“Boys are handsome,” they giggled. “Not pretty!”

“If you say so,” Gimli shrugged. But Legolas wasn’t handsome, not in the slightest. Pretty, gorgeous, fucking beautiful—but handsome? Gimli wrinkled his nose, watching the selkie frolick. The word didn’t suit him. Not at all.

“She’s a _princess_ ,” one of them insisted. “The prettiest princess of the selkies.”

“There aren’t selkies,” Gimli lied. “You know that, right?”

“Are too!” the dwarrowdam stamped her feet, put her hands on her small hips. “You just think that ‘cause you’re a dumb grown-up!”

“You’re just a Firebeard!” another insisted. “You’re just saying that because you hate selkies!”

“You hate everything!” And the little flock stormed off, sandcastles unfinished, their spades still sticking out of the sand.

 _And that_ , Gimli sighed, _is why Fí is so over being King._

* * *

 The sun set slowly, shadows lengthening. Gimli settled down in the sand, sign against his back, and waited for the beach to trickle empty, counting down the minutes until the selkie, _his selkie_ , could come ashore. 

It was hard to stay angry watching Legolas play in the waves, but part of him started to feel heavy. Just yesterday Legolas had been afraid of him, thought—what? He’d meant to hurt him? So startled by the sudden sick he’d fled to the waves. He’d meant to make it better, comfort him, teach him he didn’t have to fear…but now here was the damned selkie showing off in broad daylight, in full view of the entire beach. He was half-afraid Legolas would run up on the sand, strip off his skin and reveal himself…

But that wouldn’t be the worse bit, would it? No, the worst bit, the very worst bit, would be for the damned selkie to forget his fear of Men, Hobbits, Dwaves, of land-going folk, and be mistaken for a simple seal.

[You didn’t do the damned creature a favor.]  
[You taught him not to be afraid.]

Nuisance animals got shot. Even seals.

…even the pretty ones.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dwarf meets a Selkie on the beach. Smut ensues.

“Wha-hahahahahaha-wha-hahaha-wha-ha whaaat,” Legolas sang, laughed, snorted, cackled, capered in the sand once clothes were off and all prepared. “What is THAT?”

“It’s a condom,” Gimli said, exasperated.

[As if getting the bloody thing on wasn’t a big enough boner-killer already.]

But the selkie only snorted, buried his face in the sand, flipping his feet. “What’s so bloody funny?” Gimli grumped.

“You—I—“ the selkie sneezed, brushing tears off against the backs of his hands. “—wha-hahaha—aaat?”

“It’s just a bloody condom.”

“A condom a condom,” Legolas sang, still snickering to himself. “What’s a condom why a condom _why there_ —?” He wondered. Then—even more horrifyingly—his eyes lit up. “Is it delicious? Can I—“

“NO.” Gimli said. “You can’t eat it.”

The selkie snorted his disapproval for all things inedible. “What’s it for?”

“Protection.”

“Protection?” Legolas wrinkled his nose. “Protection my Gimli? Protection from what?”

“For…oh, Mahal-damnit. For the other things.” _Never date Mahal-damned selkie!_

“The other things the other things!” the selkie trilled, bright, clever eyes clouding with lust, content to let the subject drop at the mere mention of sex. “Let’s do the other things!”

 _Yes, love_ , Gimli sighed, _that’s rather the whole fucking point._

* * *

“Head down, tuck your knees—bunch up, there,” Gimli coaxed, pressing Legolas’ beautiful head down against the blanket, kneeling up behind him. “Just like that, love—there.”

“Are you ready?” Gimli asked him. The selkie was moaning, panting, nuzzling the cloth beneath his face. But the erect cock between his spread legs was answer enough.“Are you ready, love? Ready for me?”

“Yes, yes, yes…” Legolas wiggled his arse inpatiently—almost comically!—towards him. “The other things the other things,” he whined.

“What other things?” Gimli teased him.

“The other things!” Legolas insisted. “Please oh please _oh please_ the other things!”

“Like this?” Gimli thrust himself forward between his thighs.

“The other things!” Legolas whined. “The other things!”

“No?” Gimli continued to torment him. “This isn’t what you wanted?”

“Please, please—“

“You want me to fuck you, love?”

“Yes, yes, please, please—“

“Fuck you, love?” Gimli ran rough hands down the curved line of his spine, thighs, taut arse. “Fuck you how?”

“Gimli, Gimli, my Gimli—“

“Fuck you with fingers?” Gimli teased a touch against that gaping hole.

“ _Û!_ ” Legolas nearly bolted upright. “ _Ring!_ I—cold!”

“It’s only lube, love,” Gimli promised, planting kisses down his back. “You’ll thank me for it.”

“Cold,” Legolas grimaced. “Cold cold cold cold _cold_.”

“You ridiculous, beautiful fool,” Gimli laughed. “It’s not that cold!”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Legolas whined. “Cold!”

“You need me to warm you up?” Gimli breathed against his skin, kissing down his back, his hips, gliding his face along the soft curve of his arse.

“The other things…” Legolas whimpered as shivers went through his skin. “The other things.” It was tempting to continue, the squeals of delight as his tongue lapped against that hole, the gasps and moans and giggles every time his beard bristled against smooth skin. But Gimli wanted more, and Legolas was more than happy—bloody fucking desperate—to give.

“Going to go inside you now,” Gimli steadied him gently. “Fingers first?”

“Yes yes yes,” the selkie huffed and rolled his blown eyes, impatient. “The other things!”

“You ungrateful little shit,” Gimli laughed, “I ought to just leave you like this!”

“No no no!” Legolas cringed. “The other things!”

“Alright, alright love,” Gimli said, delving in with one thick finger, felt that puckering ring contract against him, then soften sweetly.

“The other things,” Legolas was whimpering now. “Please Gimli please Gimli yes Gimli—“

“You want the other things?” Bloody hell, their fuck-talk had some serious issues.

“Yes, yes yes!”

“Inside here now?” he slicked more around himself, made sure everything was wet and ready.

“Yes Gimli my Gimli yes yes!” And with that Gimli came forward, pulled those hips into gently, and guided himself inside.

“Elo!” Legolas cried out. “Elo!”

Gimli stopped instantly. “Am I hurting you?” But the selkie only slid himself back along his length, grinding fiercely against his hips.

“ _A! Elbereth!_ ” Liquid syllables flew like a prayer—or curse.

“Legolas—?”

“ _Maer_ ,” the selkie breathed, biting the folds and of the blanket and fucking himself back against him. “ _A, Óli!_ I—my Gimli—much better!”

“Thought so, love,” he caressed that heaving back. “Sex isn’t supposed to hurt.”

“No no no,” Legolas demanded, spread cheeks and grinding arse swallowing him deeply. “Not talking! Other things!”

“You bloody, beautiful fuck,” Gimli swore lovingly, mounting up to his rhythm. “Did you really think I’d forgotten?”

* * *

With the blanket (and lube, thank Mahal!) there was a lot less chaffing, but even kneeling in the sand took considerable effort. Damn ground giving way underneath his knees, slipping with each stroke, had to hang on tight to those hips just to keep himself inside!

 _“A, A! Huio! Huio!_ ” Legolas cried.

“You know, you could put some bloody effort into it, love,” Gimli grunted. “You’ve got the easy side!” Which wasn’t fair at all, he knew. Difficult as it was, the selkie made their fucking well worth his while.

“I—do what?” the selkie gasped.

“Be beautiful,” Gimli thrust into him, “And gorgeous,” he rolled his hips forward once more, “and absolutely—“ another “Mahal-damned—“ again “perfect.” Legolas was flushed, head lolling against the ground with every stroke, those sea-grey, starlit eyes rolling back wildly, knees falling further and further apart, nearly sprawled now instead of crouched. He was close, Gimli knew. So close.

“Turn over, love,” Gimli pulled completely out and moved those hips gently.

“No, no, Gimli!” the selkie whined. “Other things other things—!”

“Shh, love. Going to finish you. Going to finish you off. Want to see you come for me.” Long legs spread over his arms, feet over shoulders, hips in hands, Gimli grunted at the sudden weight of him. Legolas was limber, lithe, but he was also Mahal-damned _heavy_.

…but long hair spread behind him, arms hanging loosely, hips bucking, face, chest, that taut pink cock all flushed pink in pleasure, Gimli didn’t regret it in the slightest. If he strained his back or threw a shoulder out, the view would be well worth it. “Want to see you come for me,” Gimli pulled himself in again. “Going to make you come for me.”

Slow, deliberate thrusts into his arse, beard ticking against belly and cock, hands grabbing, pinching, massaging, caressing hips, buttocks, thighs, and the sounds, sounds, sounds! pouring from that moaning mouth were unintelligible cries of bliss. Faster now, faster, hammering bodies together like alloys on anvil, sweat pouring down his beard, back, brows and into his eyes, stinging, tearing, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—look away. “Going to make you come for me,” Gimli promised again. “Going to watch.”

...It didn't take long.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone proves to be a worthwhile distraction.

Heaven, Gimli decided, was laying on a blanket on a beach under a night swept with stars, listening to the waves whispering, holding your lover close and hearing—no, feeling—him hum in happiness. That chest, that throat rising and falling against you, warm breath brushing across your skin. Laying kisses on the back on his head, caressing the inside of his hands with the ball of your thumb.

 _“A, Gimli_ ,” his selkie sighed. “ _i-Chathod-nîn_.”

“Hmm,” Gimli groaned, planting another soft kiss against the selkie’s tangled hair. He tasted like salt and sweetness. “You keep making sounds like that, love, and I’ll have to fuck you again.” He felt a trilling laugh like a purr build in Legolas’ chest.

“Promise?” Legolas asked, leaning his head back for a proper kiss. Gimli obliged him seven times, each one deeper, longer, more languid than the last.

“Where do Dwarves go?” Legolas asked suddenly, rolling nimbly over to face him.

“Er…” the question really had come out of nowhere. “Go?” Gimli asked, propping himself up on one elbow, taken by surprise. He could launch into a prepared speech about the fate of the Children of Mahal and their faith in rebuilding Arda during the second song, but Balin was more suited to it and honestly it was just old superstition and religion, anyways.

[ _He said to himself, spooning a Mahal-damned selkie_ , his brain reminded him.]

“Yes. Dwarves. Where do they go? Where do you go when you are not on this—sand? Shore?” Legolas tried, long fingers tracing the lines of the many inkings on his chest. “I do not know. But you go away when you are not with me. Sometimes you are here, and sometimes you are not. Like the moon in the sky. Where do you go?”

“Away, love. I just go away. But I come back,” Gimli promised, pressing those slender fingers in his own and bringing them to his lips. “I’ll always come back.”

“But where?” the selkie insisted.

“Home, I suppose. Or work.”

“What is work?” Legolas tried the new word, wrinkling his nose.

“Our, bloody hell—our jobs?”

“Jobs?”

“To make money.”

“Money?”

“To buy things?”

“Buy things?”

“Bloody hell! To take care of ourselves—you know, pay rent, utilities, insurance, food—“ he cut himself off, realizing the selkie would have no idea what any of those things were if the concept of Mahal-damned money eluded him. But he’d understood enough.

“You leave…” Legolas bit his lips. “To get—food?”

“Not just food, love,” Gimli did his best to explain, stroking that soft hair. “There’s more to living than that.” Although perhaps to a selkie it really was all just eating and fucking.

“But the sea—there are fish—there are crabs and clams! And even the slimy ones with the legs and suckers that pinch, pinch, pinch!—there are plenty of fishes and food in the sea.”

“Aye, love. But—“ Gimli sighed. “But Dwarves eat things other than fish.”

“You eat—kelp?” Legolas frowned, looking so much like Ori he had to bite back a laugh. “The green stuff?”

“Something like that, love,” Gimli laughed.

“I—I can bring you kelp, too!” Legolas rushed, pawing at him. “Kelp and fishes. Then you won’t have to go! You can stay forever and ever!”

…Oh, fuck, love, Gimli thought. Four days. Four days and Legolas was asking him to—to, well, move in with him.

 _Under the sea will be our home_  
_Under the sea will be your home_

He remembered the song. Spent days whistling it. Felt chills go up his spine. Legolas was sweet, thoughtful in his own strange way…but still a predator. And fish weren’t the only thing he was hunting. How to say no? Could he say no? How would the selkie—and his teeth—respond to rejection?

[Did he even want to reject him?]  
[ _Stay, stay forever_ , something said.]

But those luminescent eyes—and gleaming teeth—were turned to him, demanding an answer. It was too soon. This wasn’t a conversation they were ready for, not one he was willing to have. Yet.

After Ári, he hated dishonesty, but _distraction_ —? “Oh, fucking Mahal” Gimli sat up against Legolas’ protests and rummaged through the duffel for his phone. “We eat—there.” He pulled up images of the Green Dragon’s pub fare on the the internet. “Food.”

Legolas stared at the small screen in wonder. “What is it what is it! It glows look, look Gimli my Gimli it glows!”

 _Yes, love. Look at the glowing phone_ , Gimli sighed. If it wasn’t sex, his selkie had the attention span of a young dwarrow. A moment ago he’d practically proposed…and now? “It’s a phone, love.”

“A phone a phone!” He laughed, rolling on his belly, kicking those long legs. “What does it do my Gimli? A phone, a phone! What is a phone—“

“It’s not delicious, you can’t eat it,” Gimli cautioned. “It—makes calls, oh bloody hell,” how to explain the concept of a phone to someone who’d never seen one? “You can talk to people on it. And take pictures.”

“Who can you talk to people what people what people do you talk to? Pictures? Take pictures? Take pictures of what what are pictures?” the selkie squirmed in excitement.

“Um, well, mostly Fí and Kí—“

“Feekee?” Legolas wondered. “Who are Feekee?”

“They’re my cousins.”

“Cousins?”

“My…um, my father’s uncle’s daughter’s children?”

“Two of them?” Legolas asked, impressed. “Dwarves can have two?”

“Dwarves can have as many as they want.”

“Oh,” Legolas said, now sadly.

“Why, can’t—“ he couldn’t say selkies. Not out loud. Not yet. “Can’t you?”

“No. We have one. Only one,” the selkie sighed, staring out at the waves as though lost at sea. “But that was before. Now there are none.”

“Why?” Gimli blurted before he had time to think. _Mahal-damnit, this must be how Kí feels everyday_.

There was a long, pregnant pause between them, the only sounds the shredding of the waves against the shore, and the gentle thrum of the selkie’s breath. “What are pictures?” Legolas broke the silence, humming and twisting his feet playfully. For the first time Gimli saw through his merriment for what it was: an escape.

 _Poor love._ “Here,” Gimli scrolled until he found the one he was looking for, Fí and Kí at the cook out at Cousin Balin’s house for Durin’s day. Plenty of family, food—and no kids. “There. That’s a picture,” he pointed. “That’s Fí and that one there’s Kí.”

“They are so small!” the selkie gasped, touching the phone with reverence. “They live in here?”

“What? No!”

“But you talk to them in the phone!” Legolas insisted.

“On the phone, it’s an expression—bloody hell,” Gimli closed his eyes. “They’re normal size. Normal size Dwarves.”

That golden head and those strange, pointed ears tilted. “How do they fit?”

“They’re not IN the phone…here, look.” he scrolled rapidly, flying through a hundred photos or more of dwarves in various states of barbecue and drunkenness. “See? More pictures.”

“So many!” Legolas giggled, turning the phone over and over. “How do they get in?”

“Bloody hell,” Gimli sighed, taking it back and snapping a quick selfie. “See?”

Legolas leapt back. “ _Guldur!_ ” he hissed.

“Wait—it’s just a bloody picture!”

“—and don’t you fucking start,” he snapped at the speckled seal charging from the waves, scowl on her face. “It’s just a phone, love. See?”

The selkie cowered behind his friend. Tauriel, for her part, did her best to look menacing.

“See?” Gimli took another, and another. “I can take pictures of me, I can take pictures of the ocean, I can even take pictures of you and Tauriel—“

Legolas edged closer, nervous eyes darting back to the waves. “Of Tauriel?”

Gimli held the phone out to him gently. “See?”

“Oh!” Legolas stared, wide-eyed, perhaps just now beginning to comprehend. “ _Ech! Tauriel, tiro!”_

[ _Naked man bending over to show a seal her picture on a phone_ , his brain told him. _This is it. We’ve gone insane_.]  
[Pretty, pretty, perfectly fuckable man bending fuckably over to show a seal her picture on a phone, Gimli corrected.]  
[If this was what going crazy looked like, may he stricken and never recover.]

“It’s you it’s you!” Legolas hugged the squirming seal, burying his face in her slick fur, nearly losing Gimli’s phone to the waves. “Look, look, Tauriel! It’s you—a picture of you!”

“Who is that?!” Legolas flung the phone in excitement, then dove effortlessly to catch it.

“Who is…who?” Gimli asked.

“This one, this one!” Legolas insisted, shaking off like a dog and sending sand and salty water flying everywhere. “With Tauriel. In the picture? He is very pretty!”

…or not. “That’s you, you silly creature,” Gimli rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Me?” the selkie said, disbelieving, fingers playing with the very edges of his long hair, staring—no, fucking gawking—at himself. “He is…me?”

“Yes, love.”

“I am very beautiful,” Legolas stated without an ounce of irony.

“Yes, love,” Gimli sighed. “That you are.”

“Oh.” Legolas stared at himself. “Oh.”

“…done yet?” Gimli teased.

“No,” Legolas flopped to the sand, still staring at the screen, combing his long hair out, oblivious. “Not done.”

As amusing as it was to watch Legolas preen at himself, Gimli was struck with sudden inspiration. “You know, love, I can take more,” he said, running fingers through that thick curtain of hair.

“I—more pictures?” the selkie startled. “Of—of me?”

“Yes, you silly creature,” Gimli kissed that upturned face. “Of you. As many as you want.” 

* * *

 

Vain was perhaps not the right word, as Legolas had been more than happy to share his beauty. Shallow, certainly not. The selkie had gone out of his way to hunt for him now, twice. Not selfish, not conceited, not arrogant, not self-obsessed…what was the term?

Honest, Gimli finally decided on the long trek home. Legolas had never seen himself before, caught sight, and found no shame in reveling in his own beauty. Honest. Blameless. Innocent. Unashamed.

Gimli left the beach with what felt like more porn that he’d ever downloaded in his life, and a promise to Legolas he’d take pictures “of home, of work, of FeeKee! Of food!” and bring back to show the selkie later.

…if he ever made it that far. Much like the selkie, Gimli couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Even in pictures, the selkie was gorgeous. And the damned creature knew exactly how to pose, too. For him, at least. Bloody creature didn’t know what to do with the camera, kept eye contact with him the entire time…not that Gimli was complaining. The photoshoot had easily been the most erotic experience of his life. And there he was. His selkie. His Legolas. Playing, flirting, teasing, batting eyes, half-lidded, licking lips, teeth, combing hair…showing that tight arse and long legs to the camera, pointed chin turned back over his shoulder, eyes smoldering.

 _Mahal-damnit, Legolas!_ Gimli thought, hard just looking.

[There was a not very nice part of him that had half a mind to forward the pics to Ári.]

But something was different now. Some aspect of their relationship had altered irreparably. Before Legolas had been the beach, the sea, something separate, reserved, nearly sacred…there was something too commonplace, to absurd, about having his pictures on the phone, able to see, admire, to stroke himself to at will. It made the selkie just that much more…real? More human, perhaps?

But it was also alienating. He could see Legolas in person, peruse the photos whenever he liked…but he couldn't call. Couldn’t text. Legolas was still the beach, the sea, where the waves met the shore with wild abandon. And to see him, to admire the selkie without Legolas present himself felt cheap. Dirty. Obscene.

“Whatcha looking at?” Kí interrupted, trying to take a peek.

“Nothing!” Gimli hit the home button as fast as his thick fingers could, placing the phone screen down on the bed.

“Uh huh,” Kí grinned. “You got nudes, didn’t you.”

“If I did I don’t see how it could possibly be any of your business.”

That little shit just grinned wider. “You totally got nudes.”

“Again—“  
“I know, I know,” his cousin threw his hands in the air in mock surrender. “You can’t like, confirm or deny but you totally got them.”

“Really?” Fí’s voice rang from the hall, followed soon by Fí himself. “Already? My, my, we are rebounding fast, aren’t we.”

“He’s—“ Gimli cast wildly. “—into that.”

“As are you, my dear idiot. Your face is redder than your beard,” Fí winked as Gimli sputtered. “Take your time to finish up—coffee won’t be ready for another few minutes at least.”

“When do we get to meet this guy?” Kí pouted as Fí ushered him out of the room.

 _Never_ , Gimli thought, and it hurt. _Never._ He was living—loving—in two separate worlds, and they could never intersect.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events of far away suddenly become far too personal.

His cousin was no Bilbo Baggins, but Fí could make a mean hash and his scrambled eggs sriracha sauce surprise was spicy enough even a Stonefoot’s eyes would water. Gimli’s stomach rumbled as the steamy scent of onions, peppers, and potatoes stung his eyes and tongue.

“Your guy,” his cousin said pointedly as Kí was within earshot, “really likes his pictures, huh?”

“What?” Gimli had already taken a few shots of the kitchen and was centering in on his cousin’s culinary masterpiece. “Oh, yeah. He just wanted—wanted to see. You know. Stuff.”

“He’s not—“ Fí frowned. “Social media stalking you or anything weird, right?”

“What?” Gimli yelped. “No!”

“Well, one of us has to be the big brother,” Fí shrugged, scooping generous helpings onto plates as he set the table. “And it’s all happening a little bit…fast. Even for you.”

“Even for me?” he tsked. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“He means you’re a man-whore!” Kí called from the living room.

“I don’t think seven counts as man-whorring,” Gimli argued. “For a Dwarf who lived in Dale for a decade I’m practically celibate.”

 “Seven—?!” Kí sputtered, sauntering in and helping himself. “I thought it’d be much more than that!”

“I’m gay, not a prostitute,” he sniffed, buttering his toast. “And you seem much more cheerful than yesterday.”

“Well, yesterday I thought you were like, way ahead of me.”

“It’s not a competition, Kí,” Fí sighed, sitting down to join them.

“Can you ever be happy for me?” Kí asked darkly through a mouthful of toast and eggs.

“I was only counting the ones I’ve never actually _dated_. Most of the sex I’ve gotten in the last ten years or so has been in relationships,” Gimli countered. “Not one-night stands.”

Kí swallowed a large bite of potatoes and washed it down with juice. “So? What’s the difference, anyways? Sex is sex. I mean—yours is gay sex, but still.”

“The difference is any drunk idiot can charm someone into bed,” he said around a still-steaming forkful of egg. “It takes considerable skill and maturity to keep them there.”

“Are you saying I’m bad at sex—is he saying I’m bad at sex?” Kí demanded.

“What he’s saying is that you have a lot of sex but girls never call you back because you suck at relationships because you’re a git,” Fí sighed. “And I happen to agree with him.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

“Really?” Fí rolled his eyes.

“What? I’m young, I’m a Longbeard. And the part of the mature, responsible, overbearing brother has already been taken. If girls wanted that, they’d date you.”

“Girls don’t date you.” Fí countered.

“They don’t date you, either.”

“I don’t date them,” Fí sniffed. “There’s a difference.”

“Is this breakfast, or a dick-measuring contest?” Gimli interrupted lightly, but his cousins continued to ignore him.

“Have you ever fucked a girl?” Kí asked pointedly. “I mean, you used to date, I’ve met your girlfriends—“

“And you’ve never had any,” Fí said. “So I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“So no, then.” Kí shrugged. “No wonder they didn’t stick around.” But the truth was his cousin was an intellectual with no education, a political figure who refused office, the boss and bookkeeper with only a worker’s wages, the caretaker of a mentally ill uncle and a stubborn brother, and (Gimli had long since suspected) much more demisexual than a Dwarf would ever let on. If Fí’d never had a longterm girlfriend or even a fuck, it was because his cousin had never had the time, the interest, or the heart…or the right girl. Finding someone to fit that criteria, willing to accept him for what he was, would never be, and his pay grade would be hard enough without his hero complex. Raising Kí, he had enough to worry about without making the woman he loved a target as well.

 _Poor bastard,_ Gimli thought sadly. _No wonder he’s so unhappy_. And little wonder he was so desperate to set Thorin up with the Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins seemed respectable enough, likable, and the sort of fellow who’d dote on their Uncle’s every need and whim. Thorin certainly deserved to be happy…but more so than that, Fíli deserved a fucking break. It still wasn’t fair to Bilbo, poor bloke didn't know what he’d signed on for, but Gimli suspected he was beginning to understand his cousin better, and couldn’t blame him in the least.

 _I need to move out,_ Gimli decided. _Give him one less thing to worry about._ But truth be told, if he left too soon, Fí would worry he’d left before he was ready and oh, Hel, there really wasn’t any winning with him, was there?

“You with me on this, Gimmers?” his younger cousin’s voice brought him back.

“Er, sorry, what?” he bit into another slice of toast.

“On Operation Get Fí his First Fuck. Mahal knows he needs it.”

“How about operation fuck off Fí and let him do whatever and whoever he wants on his own time?” Gimli suggested instead.

“Why does no one in this family know how to take a joke?” Kí muttered, then finished his breakfast in silence before storming off without clearing his place.

“Don’t goad him,” Fí chided. “He’s just a kid.”

“He’s a decade older than Ori and half as mature,” Gimli countered, helping himself to more toast and eggs. It wouldn’t do to let any go to waste, and neither were any good reheated.

“They’re different people, Gimmers. Different situations. You don’t do either of them any favors by comparing them.”

That hadn’t been fair. Kí was under tremendous pressure, and having a perfect older brother only added to that misery. “Alright, alright.” Gimli relented. “It’s just—he could be more appreciative. Of you.”

“Well, you can’t use an axe for a hammer and expect the same results,” Fí shrugged it off lightly with an old adage and poured himself a second glass of orange juice.

“Did you just _Balin_ me?” Gimli grinned.

“I’ll sort him out, Gimmers. It’ll…just take time. He’s a kid, and he’s my kid brother, so I’ll thank you not to meddle,” Fí said. “Right now you’re doing more harm than good. But anyways—yes. It’s moving fast. Even for you.”

“Don’t change the—“

“My dear dwarf, Kí was the one who changed the subject, and you were the one who got caught up in it. You and Legolas. It’s pretty serious from the look of it.” Gimli fell silent. “And you’re sure it’s not a rebound.” Again, a statement not a question. “I’m just saying. It’s fast.”

“You think too fast.” After all, Firebeards weren’t known for their discretion.

“Nothing of the sort. It’s simply fast. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. Just—be careful. I don’t—“

“You don’t want this to be another Ári, do you?”

“I never liked him,” Fí smiled. “He didn’t treat you well, and he was far too good-looking for you to notice it.”

“That obvious, huh?” Gimli grimaced, and took a final swig of orange juice.

Fí laughed and began clearing the table. “Let’s hope your Legolas offers better clarity?”

 _…Ah. No_. His silence spoke for him.

“That bad?”

“That good,” Gimli enthused. It felt good to be able to talk about the selkie, their relationship, like…like an actual relationship. “He makes Ári look like a three.”

“And he treats you well?”

“Well?” Gimli couldn’t help but laugh. “Fí, he wakes me with sex, can’t keep his hands off me, and—“

“And likes to give you fish and nudes, apparently.” Fí finished as he flushed. “I like him already.” The sad truth was he’d known the selkie for less than a week, and already he’d treated him better in that time than Ári had in seven years.

“I suppose the only real question left is when we expect to see you back on your forge?”

“My what?” Gimli nearly yelped. Mahal’s balls—did Fí know everything?

“Bead-making, you ass,” Fí scraped the leftovers into the compost bin and bent to load the dishwasher.

“I—what—no—“ Gimli sputtered.

“My dear idiot, you’re head over heals in love with this guy, you’re pretty sure he’s your One, but you’re too afraid to fess up so soon after your breakup because you wonder if you could be wrong once you could be wrong again…and you also know we’d never let you hear the end of it.”

…he was _right,_ Mahal-damnit. The frightening thing was he was right.

* * *

 “So you got nudes,” Kí enumerated from the backsat on their daily commute.. “Ori got engaged—have him and Dwalin even _had sex?_ And Thorin—what is going on with Thorin, anyways?”

“As far as I know nothing,” Fí sighed. “Bilbo said—“

“He’s texting you with updates?” Gimli asked, eyebrows raised.

“Daily,” Fí chuckled. “And asking for advice on “dating Dwarves.” Honestly. I don’t know which is worse—you being so mysterious with your new interest or Bilbo being far too open about his.”

“Better get used to it,” Gimli laughed in turn. “I don’t think either of us is going anywhere.”

“You really won’t say more?” Fí continued.

“Yeah,” Kí chimed. “We get the play-by-play of Mr. Boggins’ pining. I want to hear about some actual action!”

“It’s gay sex,” Gimli waved him off. “It’s mouths, cocks, arses, and hands. Nothing complicated or requiring much imagination.”

“Come on,” Kí wheedled. “You get to have sex on the beach every night with some guy and all I've got is a lousy porn subscription!”

“Don’t lie, Kí,” Fí chided the rearview mirror. “We both know you pirate it.”

“Not even a lousy porn subscription, then,” his cousin amended, unabashed. “The least you could do is share.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Gimli sniffed.

“So it was just hand jobs, then,” Kí insisted as he flushed. “No?”

Gimli crossed his arms, unamused. “Or you could just get a girlfriend, you know.”

“Yeah, no,” his cousin grumbled. “Been there, tried that.” It elicited some laughter, then the car lapsed into a comfortable silence, just three cousins and friends on their way to work, nothing urgent to be said and nothing passing between them a simple look couldn’t say.

Then—

“You guys see this?” Kí asked, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” Fí’s eyes were wide in the mirror, his big brotherliness kicking in as Gimli turned and grabbed the proffered tablet.

TERROR ATTACKS IN MINAS TIRITH

“Shit!” Gimli said, continuing to scroll. Phrases like ‘dozens dead’ and ‘EMS still on scene’ and ‘Elessar and Royal Family evacuated to Camp Amroth’ lunging out at him from the wall of text.

“I’m guessing AAIU’s finally done it, then,” Fí sighed, sharp eyes back on the road as Gimli read the latest articles out loud. “They’ll get that war they’ve wanted.”

“AAIU?” Kí wondered.

“Army for An Independent Umbar,” Gimli grunted. Those fanatics had been trying to stage a coup d’tat for years now. There’d been bombings when he was a very young Dwarrow, but the White Council had helped it seem like a part of the past. But there was new leadership (apparently, or so the newscasters said. Gimli didn’t really keep up with that sort of thing—too far away, too depressing, the Dwarves and Longbeards especially had enough problems of their own.) now, and things down south were getting worse. Not that you'd know it from the regular garbage coverage of stuff like The Jersey Shire and this season on The Burglarette: Thirteen Dwarves, One Woman, which one will she choose? The less he knew, Gimli had long since decided, the better.

“Why?” his youngest cousin frowned. “Gondor’s got, like, some of the best health care and stuff. Why would you even want to leave?”

“I guess even with a good King like Elessar people would rather rule themselves than be ruled by others,” Fí told him.

“What—you agree with them?” Kí snorted. “Didn’t they just like, kill people?”

“I don’t hold to their methods, oh, Mahal-damnit—“ Fí swore as they pulled up to the shop. Gimli blinked back his shock.

Sweating, Fí whipped out his phone. “Uncle Thorin—“

“I’ve seen it.”

“What do we—“

“Say nothing,” he ordered. Then the line went dead.

“What do we do?” Kí asked, looking so much like his younger self even Gimli couldn’t help but give his knee a reassuring squeeze.

“What Thorin says.” Gimli grunted.

“What Thorin says,” Fí agreed with a gulp as the reporters descended on their car. “Stick close,” he told them. “This is going to get ugly.”

“Can’t we—“ Gimli began.

“If we leave they’ll only follow us home,” Fí said, bracing himself as hands pounded on window panes and cameras flashed. “Let’s let Thorin go first, and when they’re distracted we’ll try to follow.”

“Mahal-damnit,” Kí sucked in his breath, face pale. “Why are they even here?”

“My guess is the White Council’s been called, or near to it,” Fí said. “And they’ll want a Dwarf King to sit.”

 _Mahal-damnit indeed,_ Gimli agreed, the knuckles on the hand gripping the door handle turning ashen white. But they’d done this before, he remembered. Fí and Kí had grown up around this nonsense, went through press hell after Frerin’s murder and investigation. He was just some Firebeard cousin from Ered Luin, for fuck’s sakes. He’d never had to deal with an actual feeding frenzy.

The wave suddenly turned into a storm, jostling reporters rocking the car now turned to a new target. “That’s Thorin,” Fí breathed. “We’ll wait until he’s half-way through then make a run for it.”

“Thorin! Thorin!”  
“Mr. Oakenshield!”  
“How do you feel about the recent bombings in Minas Tirith?”  
“Will the Dwarves go to Gondor’s aid if called to war?”  
“Will the Longbeards have a King again?”

“On the count of three, make a break for it,” Fí said, pulling Kí into the front seat with them and grasping his brother’s shaking hand. “Don’t get separated, don’t get left, and for Mahal’s sake no matter what they say or do don’t react. It’s what they want.”

Gimli’s breath felt caught in his beard. “You okay?” Fí asked gently.

“Mahal’s fucking balls.”

“Something like that,” Fí tried in an attempt at humor. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Kí said, but his hairless face was frightened.

“GO!” Fí shouted, kicking the door open and dragging them out.

Shouting. Flashes. Jostling hands. Bright light. Gimli’s squinting eyes teared, stumbling along at a dead run behind his cousin, hands tightly wound through his hair so as not to get separated.

“Fíli!”  
“Fíli! Over here!”  
“You’re next in line for the succession—“  
“Will you attend in your Uncle’s place?”  
“What are the Longbeards’ thoughts on AAIU?”  
“Have you met with the Iron Hills Delegation?”  
“Is there truth to the rumor Dain means to claim the Kingship?”  
“Will you attend the White Council?”

“No comment,” Fí repeatedly levelly, shoving his way through, hauling them along behind one terrifying step after another. “No comment.”

Even with the doors slammed behind them it didn’t feel safe. But the worst part—the very worst part was finding Uncle Thorin collapsed behind the counter wracked with sobs. “Fíli, Kíli,” their Uncle rasped. “Forgive me. It should’ve been me that day, it should’ve been me—“

“It’s not your fault, Uncle Thorin,” Kí tried awkwardly to console him. He'd only been a tiny Dwarrow, barely old enough to remember Frerin alive or dead.

“He could’ve raised you, raised you better, away from—from all this!”

Gimli turned away, embarrassed, ashamed. Kí was in shock. Only Fí had the presence of mind to lay a hand on his shoulder and say “It’s alright, Uncle Thorin..it’s alright.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day, a selkie (or even two) is a welcome distraction.

The day sucked ass, Gimli decided as he trudged to the shore, hands in his pockets, shoulders weighted. After that fiasco with the reporters the day’d gone from Hel to worse. Had to close the damned shop indefinitely due to the distraction and unwanted attention.

…and neither he, his cousins, or Uncle Thorin could afford extended time off at the moment.

He’d stayed home, stayed up with Fí, just watching the news unfold in silence long after Kí had grown bored and gone to bed. It wasn’t until his cousin had finally sighed and flicked the remote and went without a word that Gimli dared to leave. He loved the Mahal-damned selkie, had spent all day thinking about that impossible smile, those bright eyes, those beautiful, slack-jawed expressions and whimpering faces that turned every lay into a mad sprint without control. But sex—absolutely fucking amazing sex—was still sex. And family was family, even if they only needed you to be silent and sit next to them in the dark, room awash with the images of a world so far away but still too near.

“Gimli!” Legolas shouted from the waves. “My Gimli!” The selkie was a sight for sore eyes, naked, dripping, those lean muscles rippling under supple skin as he ran. “You came back you came back! You said you would you said you said you’d always—“

“Always,” Gimli grunted through a mouthful of Legolas’ hair and lips, that gentle pink tongue tickling against his lips, tongue, teeth, slippery and warm like the selkie’s soft skin beneath his hands. “Always.” Selkie on his knees, fistfuls of hair in his hands, it’d take little effort to get him down, get him on his back, get him where he wanted—needed—him, but an actual fuck was better than frotting and Legolas’ seemingly impervious skin be damned, the silly creature deserved proper lube and care. Gimli finally managed to disentangle himself from those long limbs and prowling lips long enough to spread the blanket as Legolas’ nimble hands shed his clothes faster than believably possible. There was a moment’s pause as he slipped a condom on, but the selkie accepted it without question.

[Or laughter.]

Gimli wanted him on hands and knees, roughly, like last night. Ári had always insisted on top, and while he certainly couldn’t call himself monogamous Gimli prided himself in being _faithful_ , so for a verse he’d felt starved and unsatisfied, however good the orgasms may have been. It wouldn't be fair to ask that again, not so soon, and not from someone so inexperienced—albeit enthusiastic—as Legolas. He’d ask what the selkie wanted, but Mahal-damnit the silly, preening creature didn’t know the words, called everything “The Other Things.” Didn’t know what he wanted, let alone how to say it. They’d have time to talk fantasies and preferences later, Gimli decided. For now he was simply going to show Legolas and take Legolas every way he could imagine. Teach him to say the things he wanted. They could talk, try switching it up later.

…and if they just happened to have earth-shattering sex in the process, well.

“Like this, love,” Gimli leaned back, nestling down beneath him.

“You—me?” Legolas asked, uncertain. “Up here?”

“Just like that, love,” Gimli coaxed the selkie down to straddle his hips, caressing those long legs reassuringly all the while. “Just like that.”

“I—how?”

“Let me—“ Gimli reached hands up reverently to that quivering arse as the selkie’s face flushed with pleasure. “Going inside you now, going to be cold—“  
Legolas grimaced, tensing around him, cheeks clenching. “It’s alright, love,” he promised, tracing gently around the rim as he felt the selkie’s muscles turn to liquid beneath his touch. “Just lube, love. Not going to hurt you. Going to be gentle.”

“The other things,” Legolas gasped, back arching as he worked one finger up inside, pressuring that smooth, firm bulge. “The other things.”

“You want the other things?” Gimli asked, adding a second finger-tip as that hole spread to take him. “Like this?”

“My Gimli—“

“Here, love,” he brought that slender hand down to hold him and tilted his hips up. “Need you to take me. Take me up inside.” Awkwardly, clumsily, Legolas settled himself down, frowning with concentration as Gimli’s hands helped guide him. There was a moment of resistance, a small spasm, then he was in, held tight and hot inside.

“That’s it, love,” Gimli groaned. “That’s it. Now you control it, love. You decide how much—“

“All of you,” that hunger was back in the selkie’s eyes as he spread himself and swallowed the shaft until his arse was slick and hot against Gimli’s skin. “All of you.” They sat for a moment just like that, breathing hard, pupils blown. “I—do what?” Legolas asked weakly.

“Like this,” Gimli rocked his hips gently while stroking with his hands. “Like this.” A plaintive cry. Those bright eyes closed, skin trembling, long neck thrown back. “Move you hips, love,” Gimli instructed, bringing his own up to meet him. “Move—there.”  
“Ai—“ Legolas cried. The heat of him. Tight, gripping. It sent shockwaves up his own spine, made him want to stroke harder, faster, delve into that bounding arse until the selkie was screaming his name.

 _Not tonight,_ Gimli gritted his teeth. Tonight was for Legolas. “There you are, love. Just move how it feels good, however you want it—“ he tried to lie still, let the selkie ride him for his own pleasure, didn’t always succeed because Mahal did that tight, hot arse feel so damned good but it was the thought and intent that counted. Not that he need have worried—Legolas was far too distracted giving himself multiple orgasms to notice.

…Loudly. _“Ai, ai, Elbereth! Ai, Gimli!”_

 _Who the fuck was Elbereth?_ Gimli wondered fleetingly, before the tickling of whiskers against his face alarmed him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes!” he shouted at the seal. “I’m not hurting him!” But between Tauriel watching from inches away or getting a blow job in a pile of still flopping fish, he’d take the voyeuristic friend to go, please. Love, we really need to have a word about you bringing your dog, he thought to himself. But he loved Legolas and he’d forgiven Ári far, far worse. Not to mention seal or fish or sand or not, it had been by far the best sex of his life. Legolas was Mahal-damned curious, enthusiastic, and insatiable, the sort of partner who could scream for more and mean it as a compliment every time.

“Would you mind?” He asked her instead. “At least look away?” But it wasn’t as if she was getting off on it, and even though a part of him knew, just knew, that she was a selkie—a person—just like Legolas as long as he could see her, think of her as just a seal (albeit a highly intelligent, murderous seal) it was manageable.

“Can’t last much longer, love,” Gimli groaned. He wasn’t nearly as physically fit as he’d been in his thirties, and the selkie was so Mahal-damned beautiful fucking himself and screaming it was everything he could do not to climax just looking.

“No no no no no!” Legolas whined. “No, no more more please my Gimli more!”

Edging? Really? They weren’t nearly experienced enough for that yet. “You’re a Mahal-damned tease, you know that?” Gimli grunted. “You’ll have to go slower—“

“No no no! Other things!” Legolas pleaded, now circling with his lean hips. “Like this!”

“Ow, love!” Legolas’ hands had found his beard. “Gently—gently!” But judging from those upturned eyes and quivering skin the selkie had no idea what he was doing. “Gently, love,” Gimli took his hands as the selkie rode it out. “Gently. There—“

“Sorry, my Gimli,” Legolas moaned, laying his face down against his, still heaving with pleasure. “Sorry—“

“Nothing wrong with hair-pulling, love. Just be gentler about it,” Gimli soothed. Then— “Must you bite, love?” he grimaced as Legolas sunk his teeth into the meat of his neck.

“Biting is fun!” Legolas assured him, tearing at his ears. “It is like kissing—but better!” 

Gimli wasn’t a prude, but BDSM had never really held much appeal. Legolas wasn’t purposefully trying to hurt him, just seemed to very much enjoy the sensation of having something in his mouth. Although, Gimli did wonder—

“Aia!” Legolas trilled as he bit gently into the fleshy bit of the selkie’s ear. “Oh—Oh my Gimli! Again!”

“You liked that, love?” Gimli asked. “You want me to bite you?” Of course he’d like being bitten. It was odd—wasn’t really erotic for him—but well worth the sounds spewing from the selkie’s mouth and the tight spasms around his cock. “Want me to bite you again?”

“Yes, yes…” Legolas whined. “Please—“  
He bit. Harder, but still gently, holding the very tip of his ear between his teeth. “Aia!” Legolas cried. “Ai, Elbereth!”

“You want more?” Gimli asked. “Harder?” 

But the selkie wasn’t speaking words any longer, whether in his own liquid tongue or no. Pants. Gasps. Crying out. Grinding against him with reckless fervor. He’d never keep the pace, not for long, but Mahal-damnit it felt so good, so good to let go after holding back for so long—

“I’M NOT HURTING HIM!” Gimli swore, as a cold, wet seal’s nose and nipping teeth dug into his arm. “Mahal-damnit, Tauriel!”

* * *

 “What was THAT!” Legolas asked, sprawling limply on the sand in a long and very satisfied tangle of limbs and hair. Followed quickly by a breathless, “Can we do it again?”

“Mahal-damnit, you insatiable creature,” Gimli chuckled, nestling against him to hold him close. “Is six not enough for you?”

“No,” Legolas yawned, unashamedly. “You bring me pictures? Of food? Of Feekee?”

“Yes, love,” Gimli sighed, kissing the selkie’s forehead. “I didn’t get work, though. Not today.”

“Tomorrow?” Legolas wondered.

“Maybe,” Gimli stroked his hair, trying to keep that sadness at bay. “Maybe.”

“What is this, my Gimli?” Legolas scrolled clumsily, laughing a little with each picture. “What is it?”

“That’s eggs. That’s coffee. That’s hash.”

“It’s—not green?”

“No, love. Not green.”

“Food is strange,” he frowned. “You eat that?”

“I’ll bring you some, someday, if you like.”

“Yes!” Legolas agreed, snuggling closer. “But not wine.”

“No,” Gimli said. “No more wine.”

Then—“I can see Legolas now?”

“You impossible creature,” Gimli chuckled, as Legolas made that purring sound deep in his throat and chest again. “You beautiful, ridiculous creature. Yes.”

“No Gimli?” Legolas frowned at the screen, admiring himself. “So much Legolas. No Gimli.”

“No,” Gimli said. “None of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d rather look at you,” he kissed those pouted lips gently. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Legolas nodded, still staring at himself. “Yes. I can have the phone, my Gimli? A present? To talk in? See pictures?”

“It’s not waterproof, love.”

“Water proof?” that nose wrinkled, intelligent eyes sparkling. “What is that, my Gimli? What’s waterproof?”

“It’s not delicious, you can’t eat it,” Gimli touched a thick finger to the very tip of that crinkling nose. “It means something can go underwater. My phone can’t.”

“Oh,” Legolas said sadly, biting his lips. “Dwarves—Dwarves aren’t waterproof either, are they?”

“No,” Gimli laughed, leaning in for yet another kiss. “No, we’re not.” But that gave him an idea. Just because his phone wasn’t, didn’t mean all cameras. And Mahal-damnit, scuba gear was too expensive but surely, surely he could save up? Surprise the selkie? Perhaps start with snorkeling? At the very least Mahal-damned swimming lessons?

“This one this one!” Legolas chirped. “What is this one!”

“Oh, Mahal-damnit,” Gimli swore. He’d gotten a new phone and new number, but pulled the data chip off his old one, and there were those last pictures of Ári, naked as you please.“That’s (oh, Mahal-damnit!)—my ex.”

“Ex?” Legolas tried the new word with a frown. “What is an ‘ex’?”

There was nothing for it. He couldn’t lie—not to Legolas. Not about this. He’d hoped the phone would be a distraction from inviting him beneath the waves forever, but Mahal only knew what a selkie’s reaction would be to a former (and very recent) flame. “It’s…it’s someone that you used to know and love and did the other things with, but don’t anymore.”

“You—“ that wounded look, sad eyes, trembling lips. “You—you did the other things? With—him?”

“Used to, love. Used to.”

“You, you took pictures? Of him?” Legolas worried. “Just like—“

“He took these,” Gimli tried to offer.

“You—“ Legolas swallowed. Blinked. Looked as if he might be sick again. “You loved him?”

“Not anymore,” Gimli took his hand, kissed it. “Not anymore.”

“You are—strange,” Legolas choked “You have wine and eat kelp and have condoms and phones and pictures and exes.”

“I’m a Dwarf, love. That’s all,” Gimli held him close, rubbing his back. “We’re just different. Is that so strange?”

“My Dwarf,” Legolas finally agreed. “My Dwarf. Mine forever.”

“Yours,” Gimli agreed. “Yours forever.”

“I am more beautiful,” Legolas said shyly, petting the thick hair on his chest. “Than this ex. Yes?”

“Yes,” Gimli said. “Why, what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” Legolas hummed. “That he is a handsome Dwarf but did not come to the Sea. You came instead! I am glad you did. I have seen food and wine and condoms and a phone! With pictures! Of food and Feekee!”

“And done the other things,” Gimli kissed his hands. “Don’t forget those.”

“No! Not forgetting the Other Things,” Legolas insisted. “But—tired? Maybe later? See pictures now?”

“You want to look at my ex?” Gimli asked. “I’d rather we just deleted them, love.”

“No, no!” Legolas insisted. “See pictures!”

Honestly he had no idea the etiquette of this sort of thing. But it wasn’t as if the selkie would see him, or could possibly share the pictures…”Alright,” Gimli agreed. “But afterwards we delete them, okay?”

“Delete?”

“Get rid of,” Gimli tried to explain. “No more pictures of my ex. Just you.”

“Just Legolas?”

“Only Legolas.”

“His skin is strange,” Legolas frowned. “See, see, my Gimli?”

“It’s just different, love.” Gimli promised. “Just different.”

“You have dark skin but his is even darker than yours!”

“Yes, love.”

“Dwarves,” Legolas laughed to himself. “Dwarves…” he nearly nodded off. Then— “I sleep now. Hunt later?” Legolas yawned, stretched, and was out like a light. He might’ve been young, limber, and enthusiastic, but he was certainly paying for it now. His sea-grey eyes were open, dazed and oh-so-far away, chest rising and falling with the slow motion of the waves, and he was perfect, just so Mahal-damned perfect that Gimli would be content just to stare, just to watch for the rest of his life.

“Ridiculous,” Gimli said, combing his long hair out gently. “You’re bloody, fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

Then—“Seriously?” He muttered to Tauriel as she curled up beside them, propping her chin over Legolas’ shoulder to stare in disapproval. “Bad dog,” Gimli grunted. He deleted Ári’s pictures and contact then drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 He half woke later to the patter of feet like paws in the sand, smell of salt and blood, and—oh! the feel of that silk curtain of hair falling down against him, that warm tongue licking, worrying, curling around him and those lips sucking him off.

“Legolas,” Gimli whispered. Then a kiss on his nose, the smell of sweet-yet-fishy breath, and he woke alone.

…well, not entirely.

* * *

 

“What. The Actual. Fuck.” Kí greeted him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How big is that fish!”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s the biggest fucking fish I’ve ever seen! Fí, Thorin, you guys, look at this thing!”

Thorin? Great, Gimli mused. Not only had his uncle needed them last night and he’d skipped to go get laid, but now he’d have to explain how he came to come home with a cod the size of a Dwarrow. Apparently Mirrormere cod could live to be 25 years old, weigh 96 kilos, and reach more than 2 meters length, at least according to the internet. And, if his sore back and shoulders were any indication, Legolas had found the damn oldest, meanest, heaviest fucking fish in the entire ocean.

“That is a large fish,” his uncle said, one eyebrow raised coolly. “Explain.”

“My boyfriend,” Gimli flushed, hefting the cod onto the counter with a flop! and a look of disgruntlement from Fíli. “He likes to fish. Okay?”

“Boyfriend? I thought this ‘boyfriend’ business had concluded?” Thorin frowned.

“He has a new one!” Kí sang, still snickering at the lifeless fish in a way that reminded him inexplicably of Legolas.

“That is sudden.” Thorn concluded.

“Wait, are those bite marks?” Kí gaped. “Did he catch it with his teeth? Does he kiss you with that mouth—Fí, look at this!”

“There was a dog,” Gimli lied, showing them the bite mark Tauriel left. “Damn thing jumped me half-way up the beach.”

“Please tell me you’re cleaning it outside,” Fí said. “Please.”

“I thought about calling Bilbo,” Gimli winked. “He’d know what to do with a fish this size.”

“You mean Boggins?” Kí said. “Don’t worry. I already texted him.”

“When?”

“Why?”

“How do you have his number?”

“Boggins?” Thorin asked. “Who in Mahal’s name is _Boggins?_ ”

“Baggins. Bilbo Baggins,” Fí explained. “You remember, Uncle Thorin, the Hobbit who cooked for us last time.”

“Whose washer,” Kí added in a stage whisper, “has apparently just broken and is in dire need of assistance.”

“You’re joking,” Gimli gaped.

“Obviously. I could see you lugging that thing for like, a mile before you got here,” Kí shrugged. “Also, unlike any of you, Boggins can actually cook.” Kí looked proud, Fí looked in increasing danger of breaking out in spontaneous hugging, and Thorin remained as inscrutable as ever.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Gimli said. “Bilbo can cook us breakfast and help us to figure out what the fuck to do with the rest of it, you can wipe that ridiculous grin off your face, and I’m going to take a Mahal-damned shower.”


	19. We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So flash-forward a few chapters, sorry. I really just wanted to write some porn :)

Night, again.

Corner pharmacy, again.

Mahal-damnit, there was that poor Stiffbeard girl—Nasim?—at the register again. And here he was with an assload of condoms (again), more lube, and to top it all off an issue of FORGE with a very, very built Blacklock on the cover whose underwear left little to the imagination and who he recognized as the drummer for Sons of Mahal.

It’d been a split-second decision, a moment of lust, followed by bitter regret as he thought of Ári and the life he’d once hoped to lead…then a chuckle as he imagined Legolas’ frolicking and cries of “a present, a present, a present, see!”. Every selkie Legolas had ever known had the same pale skin judging by his fascination with Gimli’s—going so far as to call his freckled Firebeard skin dark!—and his selkie clearly found Dwarves to be exciting so a spread of every shade of naked Dwarf would be a welcome gift.

The poor little dwarrowdam’s eyes went wide with recognition and mortification. Her nut-brown cheeks flushed pink as she scanned his purchases as quickly as possible, nervously tucking stray strands of her hair and beard back under her veil. Mahal-damnit, he was going to have to find another pharmacy…it wasn’t as if a kid still in school could pick up a different shift!

“Uh, hey again,” Gimli tried to soften the awkward between them.

“Hi.”

“Nice night?” he offered.

“Hi?” she squeaked again.

  
Gimli's eyes wandered to the beach display. “How much are those?” Condoms. Lube. Porn…Lifevest? He could see the confusion/horror mounting in her eyes as her very sheltered twenty-something year old brain tried to work out what it could possibly be for before mutinying entirely and deciding it would much rather NOT know, thank Mahal. “I, um, my boyfriend—he likes water?” he tried to explain.

  
“Free!” Nasim practically shoved the vest at him, her wide eyes begging him to shut up and get the hell out of here, Mahal help her.

“Um, thanks?” 

The cashier made a strangled sound. Gimli fled.

* * *

 

The moment his feet hit the beach he knew the Selkie was watching him. It was still too close to the harbor lights for comfort—for safety—but the white streak bobbing and diving off-shore was unmistakeable. Gimli’s heart leapt, and he broke into a run, hopelessly outmatched by the seal’s sleek form cutting through the waves, they were what? Playing? Dancing? In their own two different worlds but still together, still young, reckless, and in love.

His breath began hitching in his throat and his calves were killing him from slipping in the sand, but the selkie wasn’t willing to give up their game just yet, bobbing offshore, trilling in encouragement, diving deep then shooting up above the waves, his white pelt a dappled silver in the moonlight. Legolas was—even as a seal he still was—unbearably beautiful with his clever, winking eyes and that pudgy face and chubby cheeks which seemed to be stretched in a permanent smile. Gimli’s steps became slower, and the seal would yip and bark at him to keep up, but finally—finally!—his legs and lungs had had enough and he doubled over, panting.

“Enough already, you impossible tease!” Gimli laughed. “Not of of us were built for swimming!” But as he struggled to catch his breath something wonderful happened. The selkie darted towards shore, propelled by the waves and tide, washed up among the shells and driftwood and seaweed—and then he saw it. He finally saw it. Saw the moment that plump, wet body and bright eyes went limp and shriveled to nothing but a hollow shell, a pelt, and his selkie—his Legolas—came spilling out instead.

“My Gimli! My Gimli!” that endearing idiot cried, capering over half-running, half-crawling still, and both leapt at and pounced on him. Sent them both sprawling back in the sand, and suddenly they were kissing, cuddling, wrestling, tickling, breathless with laughter and love. He couldn’t say who started it, one, the other, or both, but soon the selkie’s long legs had wrapped around his waist and they were frotting, fucking, humping each other clumsily rolling over and over through the sand, still in his clothes, just tickling and giggling like children. It wasn’t romantic, not erotic, just—

…just fun.

Play-fighting. Play-fucking. Just goofing around, two lovers in the sand laughing, too happy for words, too happy even for sex, and Gimli knew he’d found his One. He hadn’t ever felt so carefree, not even as a child growing up in Ered Luin.

* * *

 

“Enough, love!” Gimli complained a while later, still laughing. “I want to show you your presents—“

“No!” Legolas insisted, kissing him over and over and over again, those slender fingers massaging against his pants, stroking his cock, cupping his balls. “Nonononono! No presents! Other things!”

“But love—“

“Other things!” Legolas pouted, hands working him free at last.

“Love—“ Gimli tried to protest, but Mahal-damnit did those fingers feel good brushing against bare skin, and suddenly the selkie’s lips had left his own and that mouth had closed around him, hot and tight, tongue tracing his frenulum, hands working up and down his shaft, that soft curtain of hair falling down against him as the selkie moaned, throat humming and vibrating around him.

“Fucking Mahal, Legolas—“ Gimli gasped.

“No, fucking _Legolas_ ,” his selkie withdrew and frowned.

“Yes—love—fucking Legolas. Just don’t stop,” Gimli begged. “For the love of fuck just don’t stop.”


End file.
